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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:27:10 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6242-0.txt b/6242-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aa02859 --- /dev/null +++ b/6242-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2409 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Parables Of A Province, by Gilbert Parker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Parables Of A Province + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6242] +Last Updated: August 27, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARABLES OF A PROVINCE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +PARABLES OF A PROVINCE + +By Gilbert Parker + + + + THE GOLDEN PIPES + THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE + BY THAT PLACE CALLED PERADVENTURE + THE SINGING OF THE BEES + THE WHITE OMEN + THE SOJOURNERS + THE TENT OF THE PURPLE MAT + THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY + THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY + + + + +THE GOLDEN PIPES + +They hung all bronzed and shining, on the side of Margath Mountain--the +tall and perfect pipes of the organ which was played by some son of God +when the world was young. At least Hepnon the cripple said this was so, +when he was but a child, and when he got older he said that even now +a golden music came from the pipes at sunrise and sunset. And no one +laughed at Hepnon, for you could not look into the dark warm eyes, +dilating with his fancies, or see the transparent temper of his face, +the look of the dreamer over all, without believing him, and reproving +your own judgment. You felt that he had travelled ways you could never +travel, that he had had dreams beyond you, that his fanciful spirit had +had adventures you would give years of your dull life to know. + +And yet he was not made only as women are made, fragile and trembling +in his nerves. For he was strong of arm, and there was no place in the +hills to be climbed by venturesome man, which he could not climb with +crutch and shrivelled leg. Also, he was a gallant horseman, riding with +his knees and one foot in stirrup, his crutch slung behind him. It +may be that was why rough men listened to his fancies about the Golden +Pipes. Indeed they would go out at sunrise and look across to where the +pipes hung, taking the rosy glory of the morning, and steal away +alone at sunset, and in some lonely spot lean out towards the flaming +instrument to hear if any music rose from them. The legend that one of +the Mighty Men of the Kimash Hills came here to play, with invisible +hands, the music of the first years of the world, became a truth, though +a truth that none could prove. And by-and-by, no man ever travelled the +valley without taking off his hat as he passed the Golden Pipes--so had +a cripple with his whimsies worked upon the land. + +Then, too, perhaps his music had to do with it. As a child he had only a +poor concertina, but by it he drew the traveller and the mountaineer +and the worker in the valley to him like a magnet. Some touch of the +mysterious, some sweet fantastical melody in all he played, charmed +them, even when he gave them old familiar airs. From the concertina he +passed to the violin, and his skill and mastery over his followers +grew; and then there came a notable day when up over a thousand miles of +country a melodeon was brought him. Then a wanderer, a minstrel outcast +from a far country, taking refuge in those hills, taught him, and there +was one long year of loving labour together, and merry whisperings +between the two, and secret drawings, and worship of the Golden Pipes; +and then the minstrel died, and left Hepnon alone. + +And now they said that Hepnon tried to coax out of the old melodeon the +music of the Golden Pipes. But a look of sorrow grew upon his face, and +stayed for many months. Then there came a change, and he went into the +woods, and began working there in the perfect summer weather; and the +tale went abroad that he was building an organ, so that he might play +for all who came, the music he heard on the Golden Pipes--for they had +ravished his ear since childhood, and now he must know the wonderful +melodies all by heart, they said. + +With consummate patience Hepnon dried the wood and fashioned it into +long tuneful tubes, beating out soft metal got from the forge in the +valley to case the lips of them, tanning the leather for the bellows, +stretching it, and exposing all his work to the sun of early morning, +which gave every fibre and valve a rich sweetness, like a sound fruit of +autumn. People also said that he set all the pieces out at sunrise and +sunset that the tone of the Golden Pipes might pass into them, so that +when the organ was built, each part should be saturated with such melody +as it had drawn in, according to its temper and its fibre. + +So the building of the organ went on, and a year passed, and then +another, and it was summer again; and soon Hepnon began to build +also--while yet it was sweet weather--a home for his organ, a tall nest +of cedar added to his father’s house. And in it every piece of wood, and +every board had been made ready by his own hands, and set in the sun and +dried slowly to a healthy soundness; and he used no nails of metal, but +wooden pins of the iron-wood or hickory tree, and it was all polished, +and there was no paint or varnish anywhere; and when you spoke in this +nest your voice sounded pure and strong. + +At last the time came when, piece by piece, the organ was set up in its +home; and as the days and weeks went by, and autumn drew to winter, and +the music of the Golden Pipes stole down the flumes of snow to their +ardent lover, and spring came with its sap, and small purple blossoms, +and yellow apples of mandrake, and summer stole on luxurious and dry; +the face of Hepnon became thinner and thinner, a strange deep light +shone in his eyes, and all his person seemed to exhale a kind of glow. +He ceased to ride, to climb, to lift weights with his strong arms, as he +had--poor cripple--been once so proud to do. A delicacy came upon him, +and more and more he withdrew himself to his organ, and to those lofty +and lonely places where he could see--and hear--the Golden Pipes boom +softly over the valley. + +At last it all was done, even to the fine-carved stool of cedar whereon +he should sit when he played his organ. Never yet had he done more than +sound each note as he made it, trying it, softening it by tender devices +with the wood; but now the hour was come when he should gather down the +soul of the Golden Pipes to his fingers, and give to the ears of +the world the song of the morning stars, the music of Jubal and his +comrades, the affluent melody to which the sons of men, in the first +days, paced the world in time with the thoughts of God. For days he +lived alone in the cedar-house--and who may know what he was doing +dreaming, listening, or praying? Then the word went through the valley +and the hills, that one evening he would play for all who came; and that +day was “Toussaint,” or the Feast of All Souls. + +So they came both old and young, and they did not enter the house, +but waited outside, upon the mossy rocks, or sat among the trees, and +watched the heavy sun roll down and the Golden Pipes flame in the light +of evening. Far beneath in the valley the water ran lightly on, +but there came no sound from it, none from anywhere; only a general +pervasive murmur quieting to the heart. + +Now they heard a note come from the organ--a soft low sound that seemed +to rise out of the good earth and mingle with the vibrant air, the +song of birds, the whisper of trees, and the murmuring water. Then +came another, and another note, then chords, and chords upon these, +and by-and-by, rolling tides of melody, until, as it seemed to the +listeners, the air ached with the incomparable song; and men and women +wept, and children hid their heads in the laps of their mothers, and +young men and maidens dreamed dreams never to be forgotten. For one +short hour the music went on, then twilight came. Presently the sounds +grew fainter, and exquisitely painful, and now a low sob seemed to pass +through all the heart of the organ, and then silence fell, and in the +sacred pause, Hepnon came out among them all, pale and desolate. He +looked at them a minute most sadly, and then lifting up his arms towards +the Golden Pipes, now hidden in the dusk, he cried low and brokenly: + +“O my God, give me back my dream!” + +Then his crutch seemed to give way beneath him, and he sank upon the +ground, faint and gasping. + +They raised him up, and women and men whispered in his ear + +“Ah, the beautiful, beautiful music, Hepnon!” But he only said: “O my +God, O my God, give me back my dream!” When he had said it thrice, he +turned his face to where his organ was in the cedar-house, and then his +eyes closed, and he fell asleep: and they could not wake him. But at +sunrise the next morning a shiver passed through him, and then a cold +quiet stole over him, and Hepnon and the music of the Golden Pipes +departed from the Voshti Hills, and came again no more. + + + + +THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE + +“Height unto height answereth knowledge.” + +His was the first watch, the farthest fire, for Shaknon Hill towered +above the great gulf, and looked back also over thirty leagues of +country towards the great city. There came a time again when all the +land was threatened. From sovereign lands far off, two fleets were +sailing hard to reach the wide basin before the walled city, the one to +save, the other to destroy. If Tinoir, the Guardian of the Fire, should +sight the destroying fleet, he must light two fires on Shaknon Hill, +and then, at the edge of the wide basin, in a treacherous channel, the +people would send out fire-rafts to burn the ships of the foe. Five +times in the past had Tinoir been the Guardian of the Fire, and five +times had the people praised him; but praise and his scanty wage were +all he got. + +The hut in which he lived with his wife on another hill, ten miles from +Shaknon, had but two rooms, and their little farm and the garden gave +them only enough to live--no more. Elsewhere there was good land in +abundance, but it had been said years ago to Tinoir by the great men, +that he should live not far from Shaknon, so that in times of peril he +might guard the fire and be sentinel for all the people. Perhaps Tinoir +was too dull to see that he was giving all and getting naught; that +while he waited and watched he was always poor, and also was getting +old. There was no house or home within fifty miles of them, and only +now and then some wandering Indians lifted the latch, and drew in beside +their hearth, or a good priest with a soul of love for others, came +and said Mass in the room where a little Calvary had been put up. Two +children had come and gone, and Tinoir and Dalice had dug their graves +and put them in a warm nest of maple leaves, and afterwards lived upon +the memories of them. But after these two, children came no more; and +Tinoir and Dalice grew closer and closer to each other, coming to look +alike in face, as they had long been alike in mind and feeling. None +ever lived nearer to nature than they, and wild things grew to be their +friends; so that you might see Dalice at her door tossing crumbs with +one hand to birds, and with the other bits of meat to foxes, martens, +and wild dogs, which came and went unharmed by them. Tinoir shot no +wild animals for profit--only for food and for skins and furs to wear. +Because of this he was laughed at by all who knew, save the priest of +St. Sulpice, who, on Easter Day, when the little man came yearly to Mass +over two hundred miles of country, praised him to his people, and made +much of him, though Tinoir was not vain enough to see it. + +When word came down the river, and up over the hills to Tinoir, that war +was come and that he must go to watch for the hostile fleet and for the +friendly fleet as well, he made no murmur, though it was the time +of harvest, and Dalice had had a sickness from which she was not yet +recovered. + +“Go, my Tinoir,” said Dalice, with a little smile, “and I will reap the +grain. If your eyes are sharp you shall see my bright sickle moving in +the sun.” + +“There is the churning of the milk too, Dalice,” answered Tinoir; “you +are not strong, and sometimes the butter comes slow; and there’s the +milking also.” + +“Strength is coming to me fast, Tinoir,” she said, and drew herself up; +but her dress lay almost flat on her bosom. Tinoir took her arm and felt +it above the elbow. + +“It is like the muscle of a little child,” he said. + +“But I will drink those bottles of red wine the Governor sent the last +time you watched the fire on Shaknon,” she said, brightening up, and +trying to cheer him. He nodded, for he saw what she was trying to do, +and said: “Also a little of the gentian and orange root three times a +day-eh, Dalice?” + +After arranging for certain signs, by little fires, which they were to +light upon the hills and so speak with each other, they said, “Good +day, Dalice,” and “Good day, Tinoir,” drank a glass of the red wine, +and added: “Thank the good God;” then Tinoir wiped his mouth with his +sleeve, and went away, leaving Dalice with a broken glass at her feet, +and a look in her eyes which it was well that Tinoir did not see. + +But as he went he was thinking how, the night before, Dalice had lain +with her arm round his neck hour after hour as she slept, as she did +before they ever had a child; and that even in her sleep, she kissed him +as she used to kiss him before he brought her away from the parish of +Ste. Genevieve to be his wife. And the more he thought about it the +happier he became, and more than once he stopped and shook his head in +pleased retrospection. And Dalice thought of it too as she hung over the +churn, her face drawn and tired and shining with sweat; and she shook +her head, and tears came into her eyes, for she saw further into things +than Tinoir. And once as she passed his coat on the wall, she rubbed +it softly with her hand, as she might his curly head when he lay beside +her. + +From Shaknon Tinoir watched; but of course he could never see her bright +sickle shining, and he could not know whether her dress still hung +loose upon her breast, or whether the flesh of her arms was still like a +child’s. If all was well with Dalice a little fire should be lighted at +the house door just at the going down of the sun, and it should be at +once put out. If she was ill, a fire should be lit and then put out two +hours after sundown. If she should be ill beyond any help, this fire +should burn on till it went out. + +Day after day Tinoir, as he watched for the coming fleet, saw the fire +lit at sundown, and then put out. But one night the fire did not come +till two hours after sundown, and it was put out at once. He fretted +much, and he prayed that Dalice might be better, and he kept to his +post, looking for the fleet of the foe. Evening after evening was this +other fire lighted and then put out at once; and a great longing came to +him to leave this guarding of the fire, and go to her--“For half a day,” + he said--“just for half a day!” But in that half day the fleet might +pass, and then it would be said that Tinoir had betrayed his country. At +last sleep left him, and he fought a demon night and day; and always he +remembered Dalice’s arm about his neck, and her kisses that last night +they were together. Twice he started away from his post to go to her, +but before he had gone a hundred paces he came back. + +At last one afternoon he saw ships, not far off, rounding the great cape +in the gulf, and after a time, at sunset, he knew by their shape it was +the fleet of the foe; and so he lighted his great fires, and they were +answered leagues away towards the city by another beacon. + +Two hours after sunset of this day the fire in front of Tinoir’s home +was lighted, and was not put out, and Tinoir sat and watched it till +it died away. So he lay in the light of his own great war-fire till +morning, for he could not travel at night, and then, his duty over, he +went back to his home. He found Dalice lying beside the ashes of her +fire, past hearing all he said in her ear, unheeding the kiss he set +upon her lips. + +Two nights afterwards, coming back from laying her beside her children, +he saw a great light in the sky towards the city, as of a huge fire. +When the courier came to him bearing the Governor’s message and the +praise of the people, and told of the enemy’s fleet destroyed by the +fire-rafts, he stared at the man, then turned his head to a place where +a pine cross showed against the green grass, and said: + +“Dalice--my wife--is dead.” + +“You have saved your country, Tinoir,” answered the courier kindly. + +“I have lost Dalice!” he said, and fondled the rosary Dalice used to +carry when she lived; and he would speak to the man no more. + + + + +BY THAT PLACE CALLED PERADVENTURE + +By that place called Peradventure in the Voshti Hills dwelt Golgothar +the strong man, who, it was said, could break an iron pot with a blow, +or pull a tall sapling from the ground. + +“If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would go and +conquer Nooni, the city of our foes.” + +Because he had not the hundred men he did not go; and Nooni still sent +insults to the country of Golgothar, and none could travel safe between +the capitals. And Golgothar was sorry. + +“If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would build a +dyke to keep the floods back from the people crowded on the lowlands.” + +Because he had not the hundred men, now and again the floods came down, +and swept the poor folk out to sea, or laid low their habitations. And +Golgothar pitied them. + +“If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would clear the +wild boar from the forests, that the children should not fear to play +among the trees.” + +Because he had not the hundred men the graves of children multiplied, +and countless mothers sat by empty beds and mourned. And Golgothar put +his head between his knees in trouble for them. + +“If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would with great +stones mend the broken pier, and the bridge between the islands should +not fall.” Because he had not the hundred men, at last the bridge gave +way, and a legion of the king’s army were carried to the whirlpool, +where they fought in vain. And Golgothar made a feast of remembrance to +them, and tears dripped on his beard when he said: “Hail and Farewell!” + +“If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would go against +the walls of chains our rebels built, and break them one by one.” + +Because he had not the hundred men, the chain walls blocked the only +pass between the hills, and so cut in two the kingdom: and they who +pined for corn went wanting, and they who yearned for fish stayed +hungry. And Golgothar, brooding, said his heart bled for his country. + +“If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would go among +the thousand brigands of Mirnan, and bring again the beloved daughter of +our city.” + +Because he had not the hundred men the beloved lady languished in her +prison, for the brigands asked as ransom the city of Talgone which they +hated. And Golgothar carried in his breast a stone image she had given +him, and for very grief let no man speak her name before him. + +“If I had a hundred men so strong--” said Golgothar, one day, standing +on a great point of land and looking down the valley. + +As he said it, he heard a laugh, and looking down he saw Sapphire, or +Laugh of the Hills, as she was called. A long staff of iron-wood was +in her hands, with which she jumped the dykes and streams and rocky +fissures; in her breast were yellow roses, and there was a tuft of +pretty feathers in her hair. She reached up and touched him on the +breast with her staff, then she laughed again, and sang a snatch of song +in mockery: + + “I am a king, + I have no crown, + I have no throne to sit in--” + +“Pull me up, boy,” she said. She wound a leg about the staff, and, +taking hold, he drew her up as if she had been a feather. + +“If I had a hundred mouths I would kiss you for that,” she said, still +mocking; “but having only one, I’ll give it to the cat, and weep for +Golgothar.” + +“Silly jade,” he said, and turned towards his tent. + +As they passed a slippery and dangerous place, where was one strong +solitary tree, she suddenly threw a noose over him, drew it fast and +sprang far out over the precipice into the air. Even as she did so, he +jumped behind the tree, and clasped it, else on the slippery place he +would have gone over with her. The rope came taut, and presently he drew +her up again to safety, and while she laughed at him and mocked him, he +held her tight under his arm, and carried her to his lodge, where he let +her go. + +“Why did you do it, devil’s madcap?” he asked. + +“Why didn’t you wait for the hundred men so strong?” she laughed. + +“Why did you jump behind the tree? + + “‘If I had a hundred men, heigho, + I would buy my corn for a penny a gill. + If I had a hundred men or so, + I would dig a grave for the maid of the hill, heigho!’” + +He did not answer her, but stirred the soup in the pot and tasted it, +and hung a great piece of meat over the fire. Then he sat down, and only +once did he show anger as she mocked him, and that was when she thrust +her hand into his breast, took out the little stone image, and said: + + “If a little stone god had a hundred hearts, + Would a little stone goddess trust in one?” + +Then she made as if she would throw it into the fire, but he caught her +hand and crushed it, so that she cried out for pain and anger, and said: + +“Brute of iron, go break the posts in the brigands’ prison-house, but +leave a poor girl’s wrist alone. If I had a hundred men--” she added, +mocking wildly again, and then, springing at him, put her two thumbs +at the corners of his eyes, and cried: “Stir a hand, and out they will +come--your eyes for my bones!” + +He did not stir till her fury was gone. Then he made her sit down and +eat with him, and afterwards she said softly to him, and without a +laugh: “Why should the people say, ‘Golgothar is our shame, for he has +great strength, and yet he does nothing but throw great stones for sport +into the sea’?” + +He had the simple mind of a child, and he listened to her patiently, +and at last got up and began preparing for a journey, cleaning all his +weapons, and gathering them together. She understood him, and she +said, with a little laugh like music: “One strong man is better than +a hundred--a little key will open a great door easier than a hundred +hammers. What is the strength of a hundred bullocks without this?” she +added, tapping him on the forehead. + +Then they sat down and talked together quietly for a long time; and at +sunset she saw him start away upon great errands. + +Before two years had gone, Nooni, the city of their foes, was taken; the +chain wall of the rebels opened to the fish and corn of the poor; the +children wandered in the forest without fear of wild boars; the dyke was +built to save the people in the lowlands; and Golgothar carried to +the castle the King had given him the daughter of the city, freed from +Mirnan. + +“If Golgothar had a hundred wives--” said a voice to the strong man as +he entered the castle gates. Looking up he saw Sapphire. He stretched +out his hand to her in joy and friendship. + +“--I would not be one of them,” she added, with a mocking laugh, as she +dropped from the wall, leaped the moat by the help of her staff, and +danced away laughing. There are those who say, however that tears fell +down her cheeks as she laughed. + + + + +THE SINGING OF THE BEES + +“Mother, didst thou not say thy prayers last night?” + +“Twice, my child.” + +“Once before the little shrine, and once beside my bed--is it not so?” + +“It is so, my Fanchon. What hast thou in thy mind?” + +“Thou didst pray that the storm die in the hills, and the flood cease, +and that my father come before it was again the hour of prayer. It is +now the hour. Canst thou not hear the storm and the wash of the flood? +And my father does not come!” + +“Dear Fanchon, God is good.” + +“When thou wast asleep I rose from my bed, and in the dark I kissed +the feet of--Him--on the little Calvary; and I did not speak, but in my +heart I called.” + +“What didst thou call, my child?” + +“I called to my father: ‘Come back-come back!’” + +“Thou shouldst have called to God, my Fanchon.” + +“I loved my father, and I called to him.” + +“Thou shouldst love God.” + +“I knew my father first. If God loved thee, He would answer thy prayer. +Dost thou not hear the cracking of the cedar trees and the cry of the +wolves--they are afraid. All day and all night the rain and wind come +down, and the birds and wild fowl have no peace. I kissed--His feet, and +my throat was full of tears; but I called in my heart. Yet the storm and +the dark stay, and my father does not come.” + +“Let us be patient, my Fanchon.” + +“He went to guide the priest across the hills. Why does not God guide +him back?” + +“My Fanchon, let us be patient.” + +“The priest was young, and my father has grey hair.” + +“Wilt thou not be patient, my child?” + +“He filled the knapsack of the priest with food better than his own, +and--thou didst not see it--put money in his hand.” + +“My own, the storm may pass.” + +“He told the priest to think upon our home as a little nest God set up +here for such as he.” + +“There are places of shelter in the hills for thy father, my Fanchon.” + +“And when the priest prayed, ‘That Thou mayst bring us safely to this +place where we would go,’ my father said so softly, ‘We beseech Thee to +hear us, good Lord!’” + +“My Fanchon, thy father hath gone this trail many times.” + +“The prayer was for the out-trail, not the in-trail, my mother.” + +“Nay, I do not understand thee.” + +“A swarm of bees came singing through the room last night, my mother. It +was dark and I could not see, but there was a sweet smell, and I heard +the voices.” + +“My child, thou art tired with watching, and thy mind is full of +fancies. Thou must sleep.” + +“I am tired of watching. Through the singing of the bees as they passed +over my bed, I heard my father’s voice. I could not hear the words, they +seemed so far away, like the voices of the bees; and I did not cry out, +for the tears were in my throat. After a moment the room was so still +that it made my heart ache.” + +“Oh, my Fanchon, my child, thou dost break my heart! Dost thou not know +the holy words?” + +“‘And their souls do pass like singing bees, where no man may follow. +These are they whom God gathereth out of the whirlwind and the desert, +and bringeth home in a goodly swarm.’” + +Night drew close to the earth, and as suddenly as a sluice-gate drops +and holds back a flood the storm ceased. Along the crest of the hills +there slowly grew a line of light, and then the serene moon came up +and on, persistent to give the earth love where it had had punishment. +Divers flocks of clouds, camp-followers of the storm, could not abash +her. But once she drew shrinking back behind a slow troop of them; +for down at the bottom of a gorge lay a mountaineer, face upward and +unmoving, as he had lain since a rock loosened beneath him, and the +depths swallowed him. If he had had ears to hear, he would have answered +the soft, bitter cries which rose from a but on the Voshti Hills above +him: + +“Michel, Michel, art thou gone?” + +“Come back, oh, my father, come back!” + +But perhaps it did avail that there were lighted candles before a little +shrine, and that a mother, in her darkness, kissed the feet of One on a +Calvary. + + + + +THE WHITE OMEN + +“Ah, Monsieur, Monsieur, come quick!” + +“My son, wilt thou not be patient?” + +“But she--my Fanchon--and the child!” + +“I knew thy Fanchon, and her father, when thou wast yet a child.” + +“But they may die before we come, Monsieur.” + +“These things are in God’s hands, Gustave.” + +“You are not a father; you have never known what makes the world seem +nothing.” + +“I knew thy Fanchon’s father.” + +“Is that the same?” + +“There are those who save and those who die for others. Of thy love thou +wouldst save--the woman hath lain in thine arms, the child is of this. +But to thy Fanchon’s father I was merely a priest--we had not hunted +together nor met often about the fire, and drew fast the curtains for +the tales which bring men close. He took me safely on the out-trail, but +on the home-trail he was cast away. Dost thou not think the love of him +that stays as great as the love of him that goes?” + +“Ah, thou wouldst go far to serve my wife and child!” + +“Love knows not distance; it hath no continent; its eyes are for the +stars, its feet for the swords; it continueth, though an army lay waste +the pasture; it comforteth when there are no medicines; it hath the +relish of manna; and by it do men live in the desert.” + +“But if it pass from a man, that which he loves, and he is left alone, +Monsieur?” + +“That which is loved may pass, but love hath no end.” + +“Thou didst love my Fanchon’s father?” + +“I prayed him not to go, for a storm was on, but there was the thought +of wife and child on him--the good Michel--and he said: ‘It is the +home-trail, and I must get to my nest.’ Poor soul, poor soul! I who +carry my life as a leaf in autumn for the west wind was saved, and +he--!” + +“We are on the same trail now, Monsieur?” + +“See: how soft a night, and how goodly is the moon!” + +“It is the same trail now as then, Monsieur?” + +“And how like velvet are the shadows in the gorge there below--like +velvet-velvet.” + +“Like a pall. He travelled this trail, Monsieur?” + +“I remember thy Fanchon that night--so small a child was she, with deep +brown eyes, a cloud of hair that waved about her head, and a face that +shone like spring. I have seen her but once since then, and yet thou +sayest thy Fanchon has now her great hour, that she brings forth?” + +“Yes. In the morning she cried out to me twice, for I am not easy of +waking--shame to me--and said: ‘Gustave, thou shalt go for the priest +over the hills, for my time is at hand, and I have seen the White Omen +on the wall.’ The White Omen--you know, Monsieur?” + +“What does such as she with the legend of the White Omen, Gustave?” + +“Who can tell what is in the heart of a mother? Their eyes are not the +eyes of such as we.” + +“Neither the eyes of man nor priest--thou sayest well. How did she see +it?” + +“She was lying in a soft sleep, when something like a pain struck +through her eyes, and she waked. There upon the wall over the shrine was +the white arrow with the tuft of fire. It came and went three times, and +then she called me.” + +“What tale told the arrow to thy Fanchon, Gustave?” + +“That for the child which cometh into the world a life must go from the +world.” + +“The world is wide and souls are many, Gustave.” + +“Most true; but her heart was heavy, and it came upon her that the child +might be spared and herself taken.” + +“Is not that the light of thy home--yonder against the bunch of firs?” + +“Yes, yes, good father, they have put a light in the window. See, see, +there are two lights. Ah, merci, merci, they both live! She hath had her +hour! That was the sign our mother promised me.” + +“Michel’s wife--ah, yes, Michel’s wife! Blessed be God. A moment, +Gustave; let us kneel here...” + +... “Monsieur, did you not see a white arrow shoot down the sky as the +prayer ended?” + +“My son, it was a falling star.” + +“It seemed to have a tuft of fire.” + +“Hast thou also the mind of a woman, Gustave?” + +“I cannot tell. If it was not a human soul it was a world, and death is +death.” + +“Thou shalt think of life, Gustave. In thy nest there are two birds +where was but one. Keep in thy heart the joy of life and the truth of +love, and the White Omen shall be naught to thee.” + +“May I say ‘thou’ as I speak?” + +“Thou shalt speak as I speak to thee.” + +“Thy face is pale-art thou ill, mon pere?” + +“I have no beard, and the moon shines in my face.” + +“Thy look is as that of one without sight.” + +“Nay, nay, I can see the two lights in thy window, my son.” + +“Joy--joy, a little while, and I shall clasp my Fanchon in my arms!” + +“Thy Fanchon, and the child--and the child.” + +The fire sent a trembling glow through the room of a hut on a Voshti +hill, and the smell of burning fir and camphire wood filtered through +the air with a sleepy sweetness. So delicate and faint between the +quilts lay the young mother, the little Fanchon, a shining wonder still +in her face, and the exquisite touch of birth on her--for when a child +is born the mother also is born again. So still she lay until one who +gave her into the world stooped, and drawing open the linen at her +breast, nestled a little life there, which presently gave a tiny cry, +the first since it came forth. Then Fanchon’s arms drew up, and, with +eyes all tenderly burning, she clasped the babe to her breast, and as +silk breast touched silk cheek, there sprang up in her the delight and +knowledge that the doom of the White Omen was not for herself. Then +she called the child by its father’s name, and said into the distance: +“Gustave, Gustave, come back!” + +And the mother of Fanchon, remembering one night so many years before, +said, under her breath: “Michel, Michel, thou art gone so long!” + +With their speaking, Gustave and the priest entered on them; and Fanchon +crying out for joy, said: + +“Kiss thy child--thy little Gustave, my husband.” Then, to the priest: + +“Last night I saw the White Omen, mon pere; and one could not die, nor +let the child die, without a blessing. But we shall both live now.” + +The priest blessed all, and long time he talked with the wife of the +lost Michel. When he rose to go to bed she said to him: “The journey has +been too long, mon pere. Your face is pale and you tremble. Youth has no +patience. Gustave hurried you.” + +“Gustave yearned for thy Fanchon and the child. The White Omen made him +afraid.” + +“But the journey was too much. It is a hard, a bitter trail.” + +“I have come gladly as I went once with thy Michel. But, as thou sayest, +I am tired--at my heart. I will get to my rest.” + +Near dawn Gustave started from the bed where he sat watching, for he +saw the White Omen over against the shrine, and then a voice said, as it +were out of a great distance: + +“Even me also, O my father!” + +With awed footsteps, going to see, he found that a man had passed out +upon that trail by which no hunter from life can set a mark to guide a +comrade; leaving behind the bones and flesh which God set up, too heavy +to carry on so long a journey. + + + + +THE SOJOURNERS + +“My father, shall we soon be there?” + +The man stopped, and shading his eyes with his hand, looked long before +him into the silver haze. They were on the southern bank of a wide +valley, flanked by deep hills looking wise as grey-headed youth, a +legion of close comrades, showing no gap in their ranks. They seemed +to breathe; to sit, looking down into the valley, with heads dropped on +their breasts, and deep overshadowed eyes, that never changed, in mist +or snow, or sun, or any kind of weather: dark brooding lights that knew +the secrets of the world, watchful yet kind. Races, ardent with longing, +had come and gone through the valley, had passed the shining porches +in the North on the way to the quiet country; and they had never come +again, though shadows flitted back and forth when the mists came down: +visiting spirits, hungering on the old trail for some that had dropped +by the way. As the ages passed, fewer and fewer travelled through the +valley-no longer a people or a race, but twos and threes, and sometimes +a small company, like soldiers of a battered guard, and oftener still +solitary pilgrims, broken with much travel and bowed with loneliness. +But they always cried out with joy when they beheld far off in the +North, at the end of the long trail, this range of grey and violet hills +break into golden gaps with scarlet walls, and rivers of water ride +through them pleasantly. Then they hurried on to the opal haze that hung +at the end of the valley--and who heard ever of any that wished to leave +the Scarlet Hills and the quiet country beyond! + +The boy repeated his question: “My father, shall we soon be there?” + +The man withdrew his hand from over his eyes, and a strange smile came +to his lips. + +“My son,” he answered, “canst thou not see? Yonder, through the gentle +mist, are the Scarlet Hills. Our journey is near done.” + +The boy lifted his head and looked. “I can see nothing but the mist, my +father--not the Scarlet Hills. I am tired, I would sleep.” + +“Thou shalt sleep soon. The wise men told us of the Delightful Chateau +at the gateway of the hills. Courage, my son! If I gave thee the golden +balls to toss, would it cheer thee?” + +“My father, I care not for the golden balls; but if I had horse and +sword and a thousand men, I would take a city.” + +The man laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. + +“If I, my son,” he said, “had a horse and sword and a thousand men, I +would build a city.” + +“Why dost thou not fly thy falcon, or write thy thoughts upon the sand, +as thou didst yesterday, my father?” + +The man loosed the falcon from his wrist, and watched it fly away. + +“My son, I care not for the falcon, nor any more for writing on the +sands.” + +“My father, if thou didst build a city, I would not tear it down, but I +would keep it with my thousand men. + +“Thou hast well said, my son.” And the man stooped and kissed the lad on +the forehead. + +And so they travelled on in silence for a long time, and slowly they +came to the opal haze, which smelled sweet as floating flowers, and gave +their hearts a halcyon restfulness. And glancing down at him many times, +the father saw the lad’s face look serenely wise, without becoming old, +and his brown hair clustered on his forehead with all the life of youth +in it. Yet in his eyes the lad seemed as old as himself. + +“My father,” said the lad again, “wouldst thou then build a city?” + +And the father answered: “Nay, my son, I would sow seed, and gather it +into harvest--enough for my needs, no more; and sit quiet in my doorway +when my work was done, and be grateful to the gods.” + +The lad waited a moment, then answered: “When thou wast a governor in +our own country, thou hadst serfs and retainers without number, and +fifty men to beat upon the shields of brass to tell of thy coming +through the gates of the King’s house; now thou wouldst sow a field and +sit quiet in thy doorway, like the blind seller of seed-cakes ‘gainst +the temple.” + +“Even so, my son.” Then he stooped down, knelt upon his knees, and +kissed the earth solemnly, and when he rose there was a smile upon his +face. + +Then the lad said: “When I was the son of a governor I loved to play +with the golden balls, to shoot at the target for pearls, and to ride +the flamingo down; now I would grind the corn which thou didst reap, and +with oil make seed-cakes for our supper, and sit quiet with thee in thy +doorway.” Then he too stooped down and kissed the earth, and rose up +again with a smile upon his face. + +And as they went the earth seemed suddenly to blossom anew, the glory +of the Scarlet Hills burst upon them, and they could hear bugles calling +far off and see giant figures trooping along the hills, all scarlet too, +with streaming hair. And presently, near to a lake, there was a +great gateway, and perched upon a rock near it a chateau of divine +proportions, on which was written above the perfect doorway: + +“The Keeper of the House awaits thee. Enter into Quiet.” + +And they entered, and were possessed of an incomparable peace. And then +came to them an old man of noble countenance, with eye neither dimmed +nor sunken, and cheek dewy as a child’s, and his voice was like an organ +when it plays the soft thanksgiving of a mother. + +“Why did ye kiss the earth as ye travelled?” he asked. Then they told +him, each with his own tongue, and he smiled upon them and questioned +them of all their speech by the way; and they answered him all honestly +and with gladness, for the searching of their hearts was a joy and +relief. But he looked most lovingly upon the lad. + +“Wouldst thou, then, indeed enter the quiet country?” he asked. + +And the lad answered: “I have lived so long in the noise!” + +“Thou hast learned all, thou hast lived all,” he answered the boy. +“Beyond the Hills of Scarlet there is quiet, and thou shalt dwell there, +thou and he. Ye have the perfect desire--Go in peace, and know that +though ye are of different years, as men count time, God’s clock strikes +the same for both; for both are of equal knowledge, and have the same +desire at last.” + +Then, lifting up his hands, he said: “O children of men! O noisy world! +when will ye learn the delectable way?” + +Slowly they all three came from the Chateau, and through the great +gateway, and passed to the margin of a shining lake. There the two +stepped into a boat that waited for them, of which the rowers were nobly +fashioned, like the Keeper of the House, and as they bowed their heads +to a melodious blessing, the boat drew away. Soon, in the sweet haze, +they looked transfigured and enlarged, majestic figures moving through +the Scarlet Hills to the quiet country. Now the valley through which +they had passed was the Valley of Death, where the young become old, and +the old young, and all become wise. + + + + +THE TENT OF THE PURPLE MAT + +The Tent stands on the Mount of Lost Winters, in that bit of hospitable +land called the Fair Valley, which is like no other in the North. Whence +comes the soft wind that comforts it, who can tell? It swims through the +great gap in the mountains, and passing down the valley, sinks upon the +prairie of the Ten Stars, where it is lost. What man first placed the +Tent on the Mount none knows, though legends are many. It has a +clear outlook to the north, whence comes the gracious wind, and it is +sheltered at the south by a stout wall of commendable trees; yet these +are at some small distance, so that the Tent has a space all about it, +and the figure of the general land is as that of an amphitheatre. + +It is made of deerskin, dyed by a strange process which turned it white, +and doctored by some cunning medicine. It is like a perfect parchment, +and shows no decay. It has a centre-pole of excellent fir, and from its +peak flies a strip of snake-skin, dyed a red which never fades. For the +greater part of the year the plateau whereon the Tent stands is covered +with a sweet grass, and when the grass dies there comes a fine white +frost, ungoverned by the sun, in which the footstep sinks, as into an +unfilled honeycomb. + +The land has few clouds, and no storms, save of the lightest-rain which +is as mist, and snow which is as frosty haze. The sun cherishes the +place continually, and the moon rises on it with a large rejoicing. + +Yet no man dwells in the valley. It is many scores of leagues from any +habitation, from the lodges of the Indians or the posts of the Company’s +people. There are few tribes that know of it, and these go not to it as +tribes, but as one man or one woman has need. Men say that beyond it, +in another amphitheatre of the hills, is the White Valley, the Place of +Peace, where the sleepers are, and the Scarlet Hunter is sentinel. Yet +who knows--since any that have been there are constrained to be silent, +or forget what they have seen? + +But this valley where the Tent stands is for those who have broken the +commandment, “Thou shalt not sell thy soul.” Hither they come and wait +and desire continually; and this delightful land is their punishment, +for they have no relish for goodly things, the power to enjoy going from +them when they bargained their souls away. The great peace, the noble +pasturage, the equal joy of day and night wherein is neither heat +nor cold, where life is like the haze on a harvest-field, are for +chastisement, till that by great patience and striving, some one, having +the gift of sacrifice, shall give his life to buy back that soul. For +it is in the minds of this people of the North that for every life +that comes into the world one passes out, and for every soul which is +bartered away another must be set free ere it can be redeemed. + +Men and women whom life and their own sins had battered came seeking the +Tent; but they were few and they were chiefly old, for conscience cometh +mostly when man can work and wanton no more. Yet one day, when the +sight of the valley was most fair to their eyes, there came out of the +southmost corner a girl, who, as soon as she set foot in the valley, +laid aside her knapsack in the hollow of a tree, also her moccasins and +a little cap of fur, and came on with bare head and feet towards the +Mount of the Lost Winters. + +She was of good stature, ripely made, not beautiful of face, but with +a look which would make any man turn twice to see, a very glory of +fine hair, and a hand which spoke oftener than the lips. She had come a +month’s travel, scarcely halting from sunrise to sunset, and she was as +worn in body as in spirit. Now, as she passed up the valley she stood +still several times, and looked round in a kind of dream, as well one +might who had come out of an inclement south country to this sweet +nourishment. Yet she stood not still for joy and content, but for +pain. Once or twice she lifted up her hands above her head as though +appealing, but these pauses were only for brief moments, for she kept +moving on towards the mountain with a swift step. When she had climbed +the plateau where the delicate grass yielded with a tender spring to the +feet, she paused long and gazed round, as though to take a last glance +at all; then, turning to the Tent, looked steadfastly at it, awe and +wonder, and something more difficult of interpretation, in her face. At +last she slowly came to the curtain of the Tent, and lifting it, without +a pause stepped inside, the curtain falling behind her. + +The Tent was empty save for the centre-pole, a wooden trough of dried +fruit, a jar of water, and a mat of the most gentle purple colour, which +was laid between the centre-pole and the tent-curtain. The mat was of +exquisite make, as it seemed from the chosen fibres of some perfect +wood, and the hue was as that of a Tyrian dye. A soft light pervaded +the place, perhaps filtered through the parchment-like white skin of the +Tent, for it seemed to have no other fountain. Upon the farther side +a token was drawn in purple on the tentskin, and the girl, seeing it, +turned quickly to the curtain through which she had passed. Upon the +curtain were other signs. She read them slowly, and repeated them out +loud in a low uncertain voice, like a bird’s note blundering in a flute: + +“Four hours shalt thou look northward, kneeling on the Mat of Purple, +and thinking of the Camp of the Delightful Fires, around which is the +Joyous City; four hours shalt thou lie prone, thy face upon the soothing +earth, desiring sleep; and four hours shalt thou look within thine own +breast, thinking of thy sin; four hours also shalt thou go through the +valley, calling out that thou art lost, and praying the Scarlet Hunter +to bring thee home. Afterwards thou shalt sleep, and thou shalt comfort +thyself with food when thou wilt. If the Scarlet Hunter comes not, and +thy life faileth for misery, and none comprehending thy state offereth +his life, that thy soul may be free once more--then thou shalt gladly +die, and, yielding thine own body, shall purchase back thy soul; but +this is not possible until thou hast dwelt here a year and a day.” + +Having read, the girl threw herself face forward on the ground, her body +shaking with grief, and she cried out a man’s name many times with great +bitterness “Ambroise! Ambroise! Ambroise!” + +A long time she lay prone, crying so; but at last arose and, folding +back the curtain with hot hands, began her vigil for the redemption of a +soul. + +And while her sorrow grew, a father mourned for his daughter and called +his God to witness that he was guiltless of her loss, though he had said +hard words to her by reason of a man called Ambroise. Then, too, the +preacher had exhorted her late and early till her mind was in a maze--it +is enough to have the pangs of youth and love, to be awakened by the +pain of mere growth and knowledge, without the counsel of the overwise +to go jolting through the soul. + +The girl was only eighteen. She had never known her mother, she had +lived as the flowers do, and when her hour of trial came she felt +herself cast like a wandering bird out of the nest. In her childhood she +had known no preachers, no teaching, save the wholesome catechism of a +father’s love and the sacred intimacy of Nature. Living so, learning by +signs the language of law and wisdom, she had indrawn the significance +of legend, the power of the awful natural. She had made her own +commandments. + +When Ambroise the courier came, she had looked into his eyes and seen +her own--indeed, it was most wonderful, for those two pairs of eyes were +as those of one person. And each, as each looked, smiled--that smile +which is the coming laughter of a heart at itself. Yet they were +different--he a man, she a woman; he versed in evil, she taught in +good; he a vagrant of the snows, the fruit of whose life was like the +contemptible stones of the desert; she the keeper of a goodly lodge, +past which flowed a water that went softly, making rich the land, the +fountain of her perfect deeds. He, looking into her eyes, saw himself +when he had no sin on his soul; and she into his--as it seemed, her own +always--saw herself as it were in a cobweb of evils which she could not +understand. As his heart grew lighter, hers grew sick, even when +she knew that these were the only eyes in which she could ever see +happiness. + +It grew upon her that Ambroise’s sins were hers and not his; that she, +not he, had bartered a soul for the wages of sin. When they said at the +Fort that her eyes and Ambroise’s, and her face and his, were as of one +piece, the pain of the thought deepened, and other pains came likewise, +for her father and the preacher urged that a man who had sold himself to +the devil was no comrade for her in little or much. Yet she loved him as +only they can who love for the first time, and with the deep primitive +emotions which are out of the core of nature. But her heart had been +cloven as by a wedge, and she would not, and could not, lie in his +arms, nor rest her cheek to his, nor seek that haven where true love +is fastened like a nail on the wall of that inn called home. He was +herself, he must be brought back; and so, one night, while yet the +winter was on, she stole away out of the Fort, pausing at his door a +moment only, laying her hand upon it as one might tenderly lay it on +the brow of a sick sleeper. Then she stepped away out on the plains, +pointing her course by the moon, for the Mount of Lost Winters and the +Tent of the Purple Mat. + +When the people of the Fort waked, and it was found that she was gone, +search parties sallied out, but returned as they went after many days. +And at last, because Ambroise suffered as one ground between rolling +stones, even the preacher and the father of the girl relented towards +him. After some weeks there came word through a wandering tribe that the +body of a girl had been found on the Child o’ Sin River, and black pelts +were hung as mourning on the lodges and houses and walls of the Fort, +and the father shut himself in his room, admitting no one. Still, they +mourned without great cause. + +But, if the girl had taken the sins of Ambroise with her, she had left +him beside that soft flowing river of her goodness; and the savour of +the herbs on its banks was to him like the sun on a patch of pennyroyal, +bringing medicine to the sick body through the nostrils. So one morning, +after many months, having crept from the covert of remorse, he took +a guide to start him in the right trail, and began his journey to the +Valley, whither she had gone before him, though he knew it not. From +the moment that his guide left him dangers beset him, and those spirits +called the Mockers, which are the evil deeds of a man crying to Heaven, +came crying about him from the dead white trees, breathing through +the powdery air, whistling down the moonlight; so that to cheer him he +called out again and again, like any heathen: + + “Keeper, O Keeper of the Kimash Hills! + I am as a dog in the North Sea, + I am as a bat in a cave, + As a lizard am I on a prison wall, + As a tent with no pole, + As a bird with one wing; + I am as a seal in the desert, + I am as a wild horse alone. + O Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills! + Thou hast an arm like a shooting star, + Thou hast an eye like the North Sky fires, + Thou hast a pouch for the hungry, + Thou hast a tent for the lost: + Hear me, O Keeper of the Kimash Hills!” + +And whether or not this availed him, who can tell? There be many names +of the One Thing, and the human soul hath the same north and south, if +there be any north and south and east and west, save in the words of +men. But something availed; and one day a footworn traveller, entering +the Valley at the southmost corner, laid his cap and bag, moccasins, +bow and arrow, and an iron weapon away in a hollow log, seeing not that +there were also another bag and cap, and a pair of moccasins there. +Then, barefooted and bareheaded, he marched slowly up the Valley, and +all its loveliness smote him as a red iron is buffeted at the forge; +and an exquisite agony coursed through his veins, so that he cried out, +hiding his face. And yet he needs must look and look, all his sight +aching with this perfection, never overpowering him, but keeping him +ever in the relish of his torture. + +At last he came to the door of the Tent in the late evening, and, intent +not only to buy back the soul he had marketed--for the sake of the +memory of the woman, and believing that none would die for him and that +he must die for himself--he lifted the curtain and entered. Then he gave +a great cry, for there she lay asleep, face downward, her forehead on +the Purple Mat. + +“Sherah! Sherah!” he cried, dropping on his knees beside her and lifting +up her head. + +“Ambroise!” she called out faintly, her pale face drawing away from his +breast. + +“Sherah, why didst thou come here?” he said. “Thou! thou!” + +“To buy back my soul, Ambroise. And this is the last day of the year +that I have spent here. Oh, why, why didst thou come? To-morrow all +should have been well!” + +“To buy back thy soul--thou didst no wrong!” But at that moment their +eyes drew close, and changed, and he understood. + +“For me--for me!” he whispered. + +“Nay, for me!” she replied. + +Then they noticed that the Purple Mat on which they knelt was red under +their knees, and a goodly light shone through the Tent, not of the day +or night. And as they looked amazed, the curtain of the Tent drew open, +and one entered, clothed in red from head to foot; and they knew him to +be the Scarlet Hunter, the lover of the lost, the Keeper of the Kimash +Hills. + +Looking at them steadfastly he said to Sherah: “Thou has prevailed. +To-night, at the setting of the sun, an old man died in Syria who +uttered thy name as in a dream when he passed. The soul of Ambroise hath +been bought back by thee.” + +Then he spoke to Ambroise. “Because thy spirit was willing, and for the +woman’s sake thou shalt have peace; but this year which she has spent +for thee shall be taken from thy life, and added to hers. Come, and I +will start ye on the swift trail to your own country, and ye shall come +here no more.” + +As they rose, obeying him, they saw that the red of the Mat had gone a +perfect white, and they knew not what to think, for they had acted after +the manner of the heathen; but that night, as they travelled with joy +towards that Inn called Home, down at the Fort, a preacher with rude +noise cried to those who would hear him: “Though your sins be as scarlet +they shall become whiter than snow.” + + + + +THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY + +It lay between the mountains and the sea, and a river ran down past it, +carrying its good and ill news to a pacific shore, and out upon soft +winds, travelling lazily to the scarlet east. All white and a tempered +red, it nestled in a valley with other valleys on lower steppes, which +seemed as if built by the gods, that they might travel easily from the +white-topped mountains, Margath, Shaknon, and the rest, to wash their +feet in the sea. In the summer a hot but gracious mistiness softened the +green of the valleys, the varying colours of the hills, the blue of the +river, the sharp outlines of the cliffs. Along the high shelf of the +mountain, muletrains travelled like a procession seen in dreams--slow, +hazy, graven yet moving, a part of the ancient hills themselves; upon +the river great rafts, manned by scarlet-vested crews, swerved and +swam, guided by the gigantic oars which needed five men to lift and +swayargonauts they from the sweet-smelling forests to the salt-smelling +main. In winter the little city lay still under a coverlet of pure +white, with the mists from the river and the great falls above frozen +upon the trees, clothing them as graciously as with white samite; so +that far as eye could see there was a heavenly purity upon all, covering +every mean and distorted thing. There were days when no wind stirred +anywhere, and the gorgeous sun made the little city and all the land +round about a pretty silver kingdom, where Oberon and his courtiers +might have danced and been glad. Often, too, you could hear a distant +wood-cutter’s axe make a pleasant song in the air, and the wood-cutter +himself, as the hickory and steel swung in a shining half-circle to +the bole of balsam, was clad in the bright livery of frost, his breath +issuing in grey smoke like life itself, mystic and peculiar, man, axe, +tree, and breath one common being. And when, by-and-by, the woodcutter +added a song of his own to the song his axe made, the illusion was not +lost, but rather heightened; for it, too, was part of the unassuming +pride of nature, childlike in its simplicity, primeval in its suggestion +and expression. The song had a soft monotony, swinging backwards and +forwards to the waving axe like the pendulum of a clock. It began with a +low humming, as one could think man made before he heard the Voice which +taught him how to speak. And then came the words: + + “None shall stand in the way of the lord, + The lord of the Earth--of the rivers and trees, + Of the cattle and fields and vines! + Hew! + Here shall I build me my cedar home, + A city with gates, a road to the sea + For I am the lord of the Earth! + Hew! Hew! + Hew and hew, and the sap of the tree + Shall be yours, and your bones shall be strong, + Shall be yours, and your heart shall rejoice, + Shall be yours, and the city be yours, + And the key of its gates be the key + Of the home where your little ones dwell. + Hew and be strong! Hew and rejoice! + For man is the lord of the Earth, + And God is the Lord over all!” + +And so long as the little city stands will this same wood-cutter’s name +and history stand also. He had camped where it stood now, when nothing +was there save the wild duck in the reeds, the antelopes upon the hills, +and all manner of furred and feathered things; and it all was his. He +had seen the yellow flashes of gold in the stream called Pipi, and he +had not gathered it, for his life was simple, and he was young enough +to cherish in his heart the love of the open world, beyond the desire of +cities and the stir of the market-place. In those days there was not +a line in his face, not an angle in his body--all smoothly rounded and +lithe and alert, like him that was called “the young lion of Dedan.” Day +by day he drank in the wisdom of the hills and the valleys, and he wrote +upon the dried barks of trees the thoughts that came as he lay upon the +bearskin in his tent, or cooled his hands and feet, of a hot summer day, +in the moist sandy earth, and watched the master of the deer lead his +cohorts down the passes of the hills. + +But by-and-by mule-trains began to crawl along the ledges of Margath +Mountain, and over Shaknon came adventurers, and after them, wandering +men seeking a new home, women and children coming also. But when these +came he had passed the spring-time of his years, and had grown fixed in +the love of the valley, where his sole visitors had been passing tribes +of Indians, who knew his moods and trespassed not at all on his domain. +The adventurers hungered for the gold in the rivers, and they made it +one long washing-trough, where the disease that afflicted them passed on +from man to man like poison down a sewer. Then the little city grew, and +with the search for gold came other seekings and findings and toilings, +and men who came as one stops at an inn to feed, stayed to make their +home, and women made the valley cheerful, and children were born, and +the pride of the place was as great as that of some village of the +crimson East, where every man has ancestors to Mahomet and beyond. + +And he, Felion, who had been lord and master of the valley, worked with +them, but did not seek for riches, and more often drew away into the +hills to find some newer place unspoiled by man. But again and again he +returned; for no fire is like the old fire, and no trail like the old +trail. And at last it seemed as if he had driven his tent-peg in the +Long Valley for ever; for, from among the women who came, he chose one +comely and wise and kind, and for five years the world grew older, and +Felion did not know it. When he danced his little daughter on his knee, +he felt that he had found a new world. + +But? a day came when trouble fell upon the little city, for of a sudden +the reef of gold was lost, and the great crushing-mills stood idle, and +the sound of the hammers was stayed. And they came to Felion, because in +his youth he had been of the best of the schoolmen; and he got up from +his misery--only the day before his wife had taken a great and lonely +journey to that Country which welcomes, but never yields again--and +leaving his little child behind, he went down to the mines. And in three +days they found the reef once more; for it had curved like the hook of a +sickle, and the first arc of the yellow circle had dropped down into the +bowels of the earth. + +And so he saved the little city from disaster, and the people blessed +him at the moment; and the years went on. + +Then there came a time when the little city was threatened with a woeful +flood, because of a breaking flume; but by a simple and wise device +Felion stayed the danger. + +And again the people blessed him; and the years went on. + +By-and-by an awful peril came, for two-score children had set a great +raft loose upon the river, and they drifted down towards the rapids in +the sight of the people; and mothers and helpless fathers wrung their +hands, for on the swift tide no boat could reach them, and none could +intercept the raft. But Felion, seeing, ran out upon the girders of a +bridge that was being builded, and there, before them all, as the raft +passed under, he let himself fall, breaking his leg as he dropped among +the timbers of the fore-part of the raft; for the children were all +gathered at the back, where the great oars lay motionless, one dragging +in the water behind. Felion drew himself over to the huge oar, and with +the strength of five men, while the people watched and prayed, he kept +the raft straight for the great slide, else it had gone over the dam and +been lost, and all that were thereon. A mile below, the raft was brought +to shore, and again the people said that Felion had saved the little +city from disaster. + +And they blessed him for the moment; and the years went on. + +Felion’s daughter grew towards womanhood, and her beauty was great, and +she was welcome everywhere in the valley, the people speaking well of +her for her own sake. But at last a time came when of the men of the +valley one called, and Felion’s daughter came quickly to him, and with +tears for her father and smiles for her husband, she left the valley and +journeyed into the east, having sworn to love and cherish him while she +lived. And her father, left solitary, mourned for her, and drew away +into a hill above the valley in a cedar house that he built; and having +little else to love, loved the earth, and sky, and animals, and the +children from the little city when they came his way. But his heart was +sore; for by-and-by no letters came from his daughter, and the little +city, having prospered, concerned it self no more with him. When he came +into its streets there were those who laughed, for he was very tall and +rude, and his grey hair hung loose on his shoulders, and his dress was +still a hunter’s. They had not long remembered the time when a grievous +disease, like a plague, fell upon the place, and people died by scores, +as sheep fall in a murrain. And again they had turned to him, and he, +because he knew of a miraculous medicine got from Indian sachems, whose +people had suffered of this sickness, came into the little city, and by +his medicines and fearless love and kindness stayed the plague. + +And thus once more he saved the little city from disaster, and they +blessed him for the moment; and the years went on. + +In time they ceased to think of Felion at all, and he was left alone; +even the children came no more to visit him; and he had pleasure only +in hunting and shooting and in felling trees, with which he built a high +stockade and a fine cedar house within it. And all the work of this +he did with his own hands, even to the polishing of the floors and the +carved work of the large fireplaces. Yet he never lived in the house, +nor in any room of it, and the stockade gate was always shut; and when +any people passed that way they stared and shrugged their shoulders, and +thought Felion mad or a fool. But he was wise in his own way, which +was not the way of those who had reason to bless him for ever, and who +forgot him, though he had served them through so many years. Against the +little city he had an exceeding bitterness; and this grew, and had it +not been that his heart was kept young by the love of the earth, and the +beasts about him in the hills, he must needs have cursed the place and +died. But the sight of a bird in the nest with her young, and the smell +of a lair, and the light of the dawn that came out of the east, and the +winds that came up from the sea, and the hope that would not die kept +him from being of those who love not life for life’s sake, be it in ease +or in sorrow. He was of those who find all worth the doing, even all +worth the suffering; and so, though he frowned and his lips drew +tight with anger when he looked down at the little city, he felt that +elsewhere in the world there was that which made it worth the saving. + +If his daughter had been with him he would have laughed at that which +his own hands had founded, protected, and saved. But no word came from +her, and laughter was never on his lips--only an occasional smile when, +perhaps, he saw two sparrows fighting, or watched the fish chase each +other in the river, or a toad, too lazy to jump, walk stupidly like +a convict, dragging his long, green legs behind him. And when Felion +looked up towards Shaknon and Margath, a light came in his eyes, for +they were wise and quiet, and watched the world, and something of their +grandeur drew about him like a cloak. As age cut deep lines in his face +and gave angles to his figure, a strange, settled dignity grew upon +him, whether he swung his axe by the balsams or dressed the skins of +the animals he had killed, piling up the pelts in a long shed in the +stockade, a goodly heritage for his daughter, if she ever came back. +Every day at sunrise he walked to the door of his house and looked +eastward steadily, and sometimes there broke from his lips the words: +“My daughter-Carille!” Again, he would sit and brood with his chin in +his hand, and smile, as though remembering pleasant things. + +One day at last, in the full tide of summer, a man, haggard and +troubled, came to Felion’s house, and knocked, and, getting no reply, +waited; and whenever he looked down at the little city he wrung his +hands, and more than once he put them up to his face and shuddered, and +again looked for Felion. Just when the dusk was rolling down, Felion +came back, and, seeing the man, would have passed him without a word, +but that the man stopped with an eager, sorrowful gesture and said: +“The plague has come upon us again, and the people, remembering how you +healed them long ago, beg you to come.” + +At that Felion leaned his fishing-rod against the door and answered: + +“What people?” + +The other then replied: “The people of the little city below, Felion.” + +“I do not know your name,” was the reply; “I know naught of you or of +your city.” + +“Are you mad?” cried the man. “Do you forget the little city down there? +Have you no heart?” + +A strange smile passed over Felion’s face, and he answered: “When one +forgets, why should the other remember?” + +He turned and went into the house and shut the door, and though the man +knocked, the door was no opened, and he went back angry and miserable; +and the people could not believe that Felion would no come to help them, +as he had done all his life. A dawn three others came, and they found +Felion looking out towards the east, his lips moving as though he +prayed. Yet it was no prayer, only a call, that was on his lips. They +felt a sort of awe in his presence, for now he seemed as if he had lived +more than a century, so wise and old was the look of his face, so white +his hair, so set and distant his dignity. They begged him to come, and, +bringing his medicines, save the people, for death was galloping through +the town, knocking at many doors. + +“One came to heal you,” he answered--“the young man of the schools, +who wrote mystic letters after his name; it swings on a brass by his +door-where is he?” + +“He is dead of the plague,” they replied, “and the other also that came +with him, who fled before the sickness, fell dead of it on the roadside, +going to the sea.” + +“Why should I go?” he replied, and he turned threateningly to his +weapon, as if in menace of their presence. + +“You have no one to leave behind,” they answered eagerly, “and you are +old.” + +“Liars,” he rejoined, “let the little city save itself!” and he wheeled +and went into his house, and they saw that they had erred in not +remembering his daughter, whose presence they had once prized. They saw +that they had angered him beyond soothing; and they went back in grief, +for two of them had lost dear relatives by the fell sickness. When they +told what had happened, the people said: “We will send the women; he +will listen to them--he had a daughter.” + +That afternoon, when all the hills lay still and dead, and nowhere did +bird or breeze stir, the women came, and they found him seated with his +back turned to the town. He was looking into the deep woods, into the +hot shadows of the trees. + +“We have come to bring you to the little city,” they said to him; “the +sick grow in numbers every hour.” + +“It is safe in the hills,” he answered, not looking at them. “Why do the +people stay in the valley?” + +“Every man has a friend, or a wife, or a child, ill or dying, and every +woman has a husband, or a child, or a friend, or a brother. Cowards have +fled, and many of them have fallen by the way.” + +“Last summer I lay sick here many weeks and none came near me--why +should I go to the little city?” he demanded austerely. “Four times I +saved it, and of all that I saved none came to give me water to +drink, or food to eat, and I lay burning with fever, and thirsty and +hungry--God of heaven, how thirsty!” + +“We did not know,” they answered humbly; “you came to us so seldom, we +had forgotten; we were fools.” + +“I came and went fifty years,” he answered bitterly, “and I have +forgotten how to rid the little city of the plague!” + +At that one of the women, mad with anger, made as if to catch him by his +beard, but she forbore, and said: “Liar--the men shall hang you to your +own rooftree!” + +His eyes had a wild light, but he waved his hand quietly, and answered: +“Begone, and learn how great a sin is ingratitude.” + +He turned away from them gloomily, and would have entered his home, +but one of the women, who was young, plucked his sleeve, and said +sorrowfully: “I loved Carille, your daughter.” + +“And forgot her and her father. I am three-score and ten years, and she +has been gone fifteen, and for the first time I see your face,” was his +scornful reply. + +She was tempted to say: “I was ever bearing children and nursing them, +and the hills were hard to climb, and my husband would not go;” but she +saw how dark his look was, and she hid her face in her hands and turned +away to follow after the others. She had five little children, and her +heart was anxious for them and her eyes full of tears. + +Anger and remorse seized on the little city, and there were those who +would have killed Felion, but others saw that the old man had been +sorely wronged in the past, and these said: “Wait until the morrow and +we will devise something.” + +That night a mule-train crept slowly down the mountain side and entered +the little city, for no one who came with them knew of the plague. The +caravan had come from the east across the great plains, and not from the +west, which was the travelled highway to the sea. Among them was a woman +who already was ill of a fever, and knew naught of what passed round +her. She had with her a beautiful child; and one of the women of the +place devised a thing. “This woman,” she said, “does not belong to the +little city, and he can have nothing against her; she is a stranger. +Let one of us take this beautiful lad to him, and he shall ask Felion to +come and save his mother.” + +Every one approved the woman’s wisdom, and in the early morning she +herself, with another, took the child and went up the long hillside in +the heavy heat; and when they came near Felion’s house the women stayed +behind, and the child went forward, having been taught what to say to +the old man. + +Felion sat just within his doorway, looking out into the sunlight which +fell upon the red and white walls of the little city, flanked by young +orchards, with great, oozy meadows beyond these, where cattle ate, +knee-deep in the lush grass and cool reed-beds. Along the riverside, +far up on the high banks, were the tall couches of dead Indians, set +on poles, their useless weapons laid along the deerskin pall. Down the +hurrying river there passed a raft, bearing a black flag on a pole, and +on it were women and children who were being taken down to the sea from +the doomed city. These were they who had lost fathers and brothers; and +now were going out alone with the shadow of the plague over them, for +there was none to say them nay. The tall oarsmen bent to their task, and +Felion felt his blood beat faster when he saw the huge oars swing high, +then drop and bend in the water, as the raft swung straight in its +course and passed on safe through the narrow slide into the white rapids +below, which licked the long timbers as with white tongues, and tossed +spray upon the sad voyagers. Felion remembered the day when he left his +own child behind and sprang from the bridge to the raft whereon were the +children of the little city, and saved them. + +And when he tried to be angry now, the thought of the children as they +watched him, with his broken leg striving against their peril, softened +his heart. He shook his head, for suddenly there came to him the memory +of a time, three-score years before, when he and the foundryman’s +daughter had gone hunting flag-flowers by the little trout stream; of +the songs they sang together at the festivals, she in her sweet Quaker +garb and demure Quaker beauty, he lithe, alert, and full of the joy of +life and loving. As he sat so, thinking, he wondered where she was, and +why he should be thinking of her now, facing the dreary sorrow of this +pestilence and his own anger and vengeance. He nodded softly to the +waving trees far down in the valley, for his thoughts had drifted on +to his wife as he first saw her. She was standing bare-armed among +the grape-vines by a wall of rock, the dew of rich life on her lip and +forehead, her grey eyes swimming with a soft light; and looking at her +he had loved her at once, as he had loved, on the instant, the little +child that came to him later; as he had loved the girl into which the +child grew, till she left him and came back no more. Why had he never +gone in search of her? + +He got to his feet involuntarily and stepped towards the door, looking +down into the valley. As his eyes rested on the little city his face +grew dark, but his eyes were troubled and presently grew bewildered, for +out of a green covert near there stepped a pretty boy, who came to him +with frank, unabashed face and a half-shy smile. + +Felion did not speak at first, but stood looking, and presently the +child said: “I have come to fetch you.” + +“To fetch me where, little man?” asked Felion, a light coming into his +face, his heart beating faster. + +“To my mother. She is sick.” + +“Where is your mother?” + +“She’s in the village down there,” answered the boy, pointing. + +In spite of himself, Felion smiled in a sour sort of way, for the boy +had called the place a village, and he relished the unconscious irony. + +“What is the matter with her?” asked Felion, beckoning the lad inside. + +The lad came and stood in the doorway, gazing round curiously, while the +old man sat down and looked at him, moved, he knew not why. + +The bright steel of Felion’s axe, standing in the corner, caught the +lad’s eye and held it. Felion saw, and said: “What are you thinking of?” + +The lad answered: “Of the axe. When I’m bigger I will cut down trees and +build a house, a bridge, and a city. Aren’t you coming quick to help my +mother? She will die if you don’t come.” + +Felion did not answer, and from the trees without two women watched him +anxiously. + +“Why should I come?” asked Felion curiously. “Because she’s sick, and +she’s my mother.” + +“Why should I do it because she’s your mother?” + +“I don’t know,” the lad answered, and his brow knitted in the attempt to +think it out, “but I like you.” He came and stood beside the old man +and looked into his face with a pleasant confidence. “If your mother +was sick, and I could heal her, I would--I know I would--I wouldn’t be +afraid to go down into the village.” + +Here were rebuke, love, and impeachment, all in one, and the old man +half started from his seat. + +“Did you think I was afraid?” he asked of the boy, as simply as might a +child of a child, so near are children and wise men in their thoughts. + +“I knew if you didn’t it’d be because you were angry or were afraid, and +you didn’t look angry.” + +“How does one look when one is angry?” + +“Like my father.” + +“And how does your father look?” + +“My father’s dead.” + +“Did he die of the plague?” asked Felion, laying his hand on the lad’s +shoulder. + +“No,” said the lad quickly, and shut his lips tight. + +“Won’t you tell me?” asked Felion, with a strange inquisitiveness. + +“No. Mother’ll tell you, but I won’t.” The lad’s eyes filled with tears. + +“Poor boy--poor boy!” said Felion, and his hand tightened on the small +shoulder. + +“Don’t be sorry for me; be sorry for mother, please,” said the boy, and +he laid a hand on the old man’s knee, and that touch went to a heart +long closed against the little city below; and Felion rose and said: “I +will go with you to your mother.” + +Then he went into another room, and the boy came near the axe and ran +his fingers along the bright steel, and fondled the handle, as does a +hunter the tried weapon which has been his through many seasons. When +the old man came back he said to the boy: “Why do you look at the axe?” + +“I don’t know,” was the answer; “maybe because my mother used to sing +a song about the wood-cutters.” Without a word, and thinking much, he +stepped out into the path leading to the little city, the lad holding +one hand. Years afterwards men spoke with a sort of awe or reverence +of seeing the beautiful stranger lad leading old Felion into the +plague-stricken place, and how, as they passed, women threw themselves +at Felion’s feet, begging him to save their loved ones. And a drunkard +cast his arm round the old man’s shoulder and sputtered foolish +pleadings in his ear; but Felion only waved them back gently, and said: +“By-and-by, by-and-by--God help us all!” + +Now a fevered hand snatched at him from a doorway, moanings came from +everywhere, and more than once he almost stumbled over a dead body; +others he saw being carried away to the graveyard for hasty burial. Few +were the mourners that followed, and the faces of those who watched the +processions go by were set and drawn. The sunlight and the green trees +seemed an insult to the dead. + +They passed into the house where the sick woman lay, and some met him at +the door with faces of joy and meaning; for now they knew the woman +and would have spoken to him of her; but he waved them off, and put his +fingers upon his lips and went where a fire burned in a kitchen, and +brewed his medicines. And the child entered the room where his mother +lay, and presently he came to the kitchen and said: “She is asleep--my +mother.” + +The old man looked down on him a moment steadily, and a look of +bewilderment came into his face. But he turned away again to the +simmering pots. The boy went to the window and, leaning upon the sill, +began to hum softly a sort of chant, while he watched a lizard running +hither and thither in the sun. As he hummed, the old man listened, and +presently, with his medicines in his hands and a half-startled look, he +came over to the lad. + +“What are you humming?” he asked. + +The lad answered: “A song of the wood-cutters.” + +“Sing it again,” said Felion. + +The lad began to sing: + + “Here shall I build me my cedar house, + A city with gates, a road to the sea-- + For I am the lord of the Earth! Hew! Hew!” + +The old man stopped him. “What is your name?” + +“My name is Felion,” answered the lad; and he put his face close to the +jug that held the steaming tinctures: but the old man caught the little +chin in his huge hand and bent back the head, looking long into the +lad’s eyes. At last he caught little Felion’s hand and hurried into the +other room, where the woman lay in a stupor. The old man came quickly to +her and looked into her face. Seeing, he gave a broken cry and said: + +“Carille, my daughter! Carille!” + +He drew her to his breast, and as he did so he groaned aloud, for +he knew that inevitable Death was waiting for her at the door. He +straightened himself up, clasped the child to his breast, and said: “I, +too, am Felion, my little son.” + +And then he set about to defeat that dark, hovering Figure at the door. + +For three long hours he sat beside her, giving her little by little his +potent medicines; and now and again he stopped his mouth with his hand, +lest he should cry out; and his eyes never wavered from her face, not +even to the boy, who lay asleep in the corner. + +At last his look relaxed its vigilance, for a dewy look passed over the +woman’s face, and she opened her eyes and saw him, and gave a little cry +of “Father!” and was straightway lost in his arms. + +“I have come home to die,” she said. + +“No, no, to live!” he answered firmly. “Why did you not send me word all +these long years?” + +“My husband was in shame, in prison, and I in sorrow,” she answered +sadly. “I could not.” + +“He did evil? He is--” he paused. + +“He is dead,” she said. “It is better so.” Her eyes wandered round the +room restlessly, and then fixed upon the sleeping child, and a smile +passed over her face. She pointed to the lad. + +The old man nodded. “He brought me here,” he said gently. Then he got to +his feet. “You must sleep now,” he added, and he gave her a cordial. “I +must go forth and save the sick.” + +“Is it a plague?” she asked. + +He nodded. “They said you would not come to save them,” she continued +reproachfully. “You came to me because I was your Carille, only for +that?” + +“No, no,” he answered; “I knew not who you were. I came to save a mother +to her child.” + +“Thank God!” she said. + +With a happy smile she hid her face in the pillow. At last, leaving her +and the child asleep, old Felion went forth into the little city, +and the people flocked to him, and for many days he came and went +ceaselessly. + +And once more he saved the city, and the people blessed him: and the +years go on. + + + + +THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY + +He lay where he could see her working at the forge. As she worked she +sang: + + “When God was making the world, + (Swift is the wind and white is the fire) + The feet of his people danced the stars; + There was laughter and swinging bells, + + And clanging iron and breaking breath, + The hammers of heaven making the hills, + The vales on the anvil of God. + (Wild is the fire and low is the wind.)” + +His eyes were shining, and his face had a pale radiance from the +reflected light, though he lay in the shadow where he could watch her, +while she could not see him. Now her hand was upon the bellows, and the +low, white fire seethed hungrily up, and set its teeth upon the iron +she held; now it turned the iron about upon the anvil, and the sparks +showered about her very softly and strangely. There was a cheerful +gravity in her motions, a high, fine look in her face. + +They two lived alone in the solitudes of Megalon Valley. + +It was night now, and the pleasant gloom of the valley was not broken +by any sound save the hum of the stream near by, and the song, and the +ringing anvil. But into the workshop came the moist, fragrant smell of +the acacia and the maple, and a long brown lizard stretched its neck +sleepily across the threshold of the door opening into the valley. + +The song went on: + + “When God had finished the world + (Bright was the fire and sweet was the wind) + Up from the valleys came song, + To answer the morning stars, + And the hand of man on the anvil rang; + His breath was big in his breast, his life + Beat strong on the walls of the world. + (Glad is the wind and tall is the fire.)” + +He put his hands to his eyes, and took them away again, as though to +make sure that the song was not a dream. Wonder grew upon his thin, +bearded face, he ran his fingers through his thick hair in a dazed way. +Then he lay and looked, and a rich warm flush crept over his cheek, and +stayed there. + +There was a great gap in his memory. + +The evening wore on. Once or twice the woman turned towards the room +where the man lay, and listened--she could not see his face from where +she stood. At such times he lay still, though his heart beat quickly, +like that of an expectant child. His lips opened to speak, but still +they remained silent. As yet he was like a returned traveller who does +not quickly recognise old familiar things, and who is struggling with +vague suggestions and forgotten events. As time went on, the woman +turned towards the doorway oftener, and shifted her position so that she +faced it, and the sparks, flying up, lighted her face with a wonderful +irregular brightness. + +“Samantha,” he said at last, and his voice sounded so strange to him +that the word quivered timidly towards her. + +She paused upon a stroke, and some new note in his voice sent so sudden +a thrill to her heart that she caught her breath with a painful kind of +joy. The hammer dropped upon the anvil, and, in a moment, she stood in +the doorway of his room. + +“Francis, Francis,” she responded in a low whisper. He started up from +his couch of skins. “Samantha, my wife!” he cried, in a strong proud +voice. + +She dropped beside him and caught his head, like a mother, to her +shoulder, and set her warm lips on his forehead and hair with a kind of +hunger; and then he drew her face down and kissed her on the lips. Tears +hung at her eyes, and presently dropped on her cheeks, a sob shook her, +and then she was still, her hands grasping his shoulders. + +“Have I been ill?” he asked. + +“You have been very ill, Francis.” + +“Has it been long?” + +Her fingers passed tenderly through his grizzled hair. “Too long, too +long, my husband,” she replied. + +“Is it summer now?” + +“Yes, Francis, it is summer.” + +“Was it in the spring, Samantha?--Yes, I think it was in the spring,” he +added, musing. + +“It was in a spring.” + +“There was snow still on the mountain-top, the river was running high, +and wild fowl were gathered on the island in the lake--yes, I remember, +I think.” + +“And the men were working at the mine,” she whispered, her voice shaking +a little, and her eyes eagerly questioning his face. + +“Ah, the mine--it was the mine, Samantha!” he said abruptly, his eyes +flashing up. “I was working at the forge to make a great bolt for the +machinery, and some one forgot and set the engine in motion. I ran out; +but it was too late... and then...” + +“And then you tried to save them, Francis, and you were hurt.” + +“What month is this, my wife?” + +“It is December.” + +“And that was in October?” + +“Yes, in October.” + +“I have been ill since? What happened?” + +“Many were killed, Francis, and you and I came away.” + +“Where are we now? I do not know the place.” + +“This is Megalon Valley. You and I live alone here.” + +“Why did you bring me here?” + +“I did not bring you, Francis; you wished me to come. One day you said +to me: ‘There is a place in Megalon Valley where, long ago, an old man +lived, who had become a stranger among men--a place where the blackbird +stays, and the wolf-dog troops and hides, and the damson grows as thick +as blossoms on the acacia. We will go there.’ And I came with you.” + +“I do not remember. What of the mine? Was I a coward and left the mine? +There was no one understood the ways of the wheel, and rod, and steam, +save me. + +“The mine is closed, Francis,” she answered gently. “You were no coward, +but--but you had strange fancies. + +“When did the mine close?” he said, with a kind of sorrow; “I put hard +work and good years into it.” At that moment, when her face drew close +to his, the vision of her as she stood at the anvil came to him with a +new impression, and he said again in a half-frightened way: “When did it +close, Samantha?” + +“The mine was closed--twelve years ago, my own dear husband.” + +He got to his feet and clasped her to his breast. A strength came to him +which had eluded him twelve years, and she, womanlike, delighted in that +strength, and, with a great gladness, changed eyes and hands with him; +keeping her soul still her own, brooding and lofty, as is the soul of +every true woman, though, like this one, she labours at a forge, and in +a far, untenanted country is faithful friend, ceaseless apothecary to a +comrade with a disordered mind; living on savage meats, clothing herself +and the other in skins, and, with a divine persistence, keeping a +cheerful heart, certain that the intelligence which was frightened from +its home would come back one day. It should be hers to watch for the +great moment, and give the wanderer loving welcome, lest it should hurry +madly away again into the desert, never to return. + +She had her reward, yet she wept. She had carried herself before him +with the bright ways of an unvexed girl these twelve years past; she had +earned the salt of her tears. He was dazed still, but, the doublet of +his mind no longer unbraced, he understood what she had been to him, and +how she had tended him in absolute loneliness, her companions the wild +things of the valley--these and God. + +He drew her into the workshop, and put his hand upon the bellows and +churned them, so that the fire roared joyously up, and the place was red +with the light. In this light he turned her to him and looked at her. +The look was as that of one who had come back from the dead--that naked, +profound, unconditional gaze which is as deep and honest as the primeval +sense. His eyes fell upon her rich, firm, stately body; it lingered for +a moment on the brown fulness of her hair; then her look was gathered to +his, and they fell into each other’s arms. + +For long they sat in the solemn silence of their joy, and so awed were +they by the thing which had come to them that they felt no surprise when +a wolf-dog crawled over the lizard on the threshold, and stole along +the wall with shining, bloody eyes to an inner room, and stayed there +munching meat to surfeit and drowsiness, and at last crept out and lay +beside the forge in a thick sleep. These two had lived so much with +the untamed things of nature, the bellows and the fire had been so long +there, and the clang of the anvil was so familiar, that there was a +kinship among them, man and beast, with the woman as ruler. + +“Tell me, Samantha,” he said at last, “what has happened during these +twelve years, all from the first. Keep nothing back. I am strong now.” + He looked around the workshop, then, suddenly, at her, with a strange +pain, and they both turned their heads away for an instant, for the same +thought was on them. Then, presently, she spoke, and answered his shy, +sorrowful thought before all else. “The child is gone,” she softly said. + +He sat still, but a sob was in his throat. He looked at her with a kind +of fear. He wondered if his madness had cost the life of the child. She +understood. “Did I ever see the child?” he asked. + +“Oh yes, I sometimes thought that through the babe you would be yourself +again. When you were near her you never ceased to look at her and fondle +her, as I thought very timidly; and you would start sometimes and gaze +at me with the old wise look hovering at your eyes. But the look did not +stay. The child was fond of you, but she faded and pined, and one day +as you nursed her you came to me and said: ‘See, beloved, the little +one will not wake. She pulled at my beard and said, “Daddy,” and fell +asleep.’ And I took her from your arms.... There is a chestnut tree +near the door of our cottage at the mine. One night you and I buried her +there; but you do not remember her, do you?” + +“My child, my child!” he said, looking out into the night; and he lifted +up his arms and looked at them. “I held her here, and still I never held +her; I fondled her, and yet I never fondled her; I buried her, yet--to +me--she never was born.” + +“You have been far away, Francis; you have come back home. I waited, and +prayed, and worked with you, and was patient.... It is very strange,” + she continued. “In all these twelve years you cannot remember our past, +though you remembered about this place--the one thing, as if God had +made it so--and now you cannot remember those twelve years.” + +“Tell me now of the twelve years,” he urged. + +“It was the same from day to day. When we came from the mountain, we +brought with us the implements of the forge upon a horse. Now and again +as we travelled we cut our way through the heavy woods. You were changed +for the better then; a dreadful trouble seemed to have gone from your +face. There was a strong kind of peace in the valley, and there were so +many birds and animals, and the smell of the trees was so fine, that we +were not lonely, neither you nor I.” + +She paused, thinking, her eyes looking out to where the Evening Star was +sailing slowly out of the wooded horizon, his look on her. In the pause +the wolf-dog raised its big, sleepy eyes at them, then plunged its head +into its paws, its wildness undisturbed by their presence. + +Presently the wife continued: “At last we reached here, and here we +have lived, where no human being, save one, has ever been. We put up the +forge, and in a little hill not far away we found coal for it. The days +went on. It was always summer, though there came at times a sharp frost, +and covered the ground with a coverlet of white. But the birds were +always with us, and the beasts were our friends. I learned to love even +the shrill cry of the reed hens, and the soft tap-tap of the wood-pecker +is the sweetest music to my ear after the song of the anvil. How often +have you and I stood here at the anvil, the fire heating the iron, and +our hammers falling constantly! Oh, Francis, I knew that only here with +God and His dumb creatures, and His wonderful healing world, all sun, +and wind, and flowers, and blossoming trees, working as you used to +work, as the first of men worked, would the sane wandering soul return +to you. The thought was in you, too, for you led me here, and have been +patient also in the awful exile of your mind.” + +“I have been as a child, and not as a man,” he said gravely. “Shall I +ever again be a man, as I once was, Samantha?” + +“You cannot see yourself,” she said. “A week ago you fell ill, and since +then you have been pale and worn; but your body has been, and is, that +of a great strong man. In the morning I will take you to a spring in the +hills, and you shall see yourself, beloved.” + +He stood up, stretched himself, went to the door, and looked out into +the valley flooded with moonlight. He drew in a great draught of air, +and said: “The world--the great, wonderful world, where men live, and +love work, and do strong things!”--he paused, and turned with a trouble +in his face. “My wife,” he said, “you have lived with a dead man twelve +years, and I have lost twelve years in the world. I had a great thought +once--an invention--but now--” he hung his head bitterly. She came to +him, and her hands slid up along his breast to his shoulders, and rested +there; and she said, with a glad smile: “Francis, you have lost nothing. +The thing--the invention--was all but finished when you fell ill a week +ago. We have worked at it for these twelve years; through it, I think, +you have been brought back to me. Come, there is a little work yet to, +do upon it;” and she drew him to where a machine of iron lay in the +corner. With a great cry he fell upon his knees beside it, and fondled +it. + +Then, presently, he rose, and caught his wife to his breast. + +Together, a moment later, they stood beside the anvil. The wolf-dog fled +out into the night from the shower of sparks, as, in the red light, the +two sang to the clanging of the hammers: + + “When God was making the world + (Swift is the wind and white is the fire)” + + + + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + Counsel of the overwise to go jolting through the soul + Love knows not distance; it hath no continent + When a child is born the mother also is born again + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Parables Of A Province, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARABLES OF A PROVINCE *** + +***** This file should be named 6242-0.txt or 6242-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/4/6242/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/6242-0.zip b/6242-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b39f93 --- /dev/null +++ b/6242-0.zip diff --git a/6242-h.zip b/6242-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2c3b225 --- /dev/null +++ b/6242-h.zip diff --git a/6242-h/6242-h.htm b/6242-h/6242-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6837eb7 --- /dev/null +++ b/6242-h/6242-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2907 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Parables of a Province, by Gilbert Parker + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Parables Of A Province, by Gilbert Parker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Parables Of A Province + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6242] +Last Updated: August 27, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARABLES OF A PROVINCE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <h1> + PARABLES OF A PROVINCE + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Gilbert Parker + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE GOLDEN PIPES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> BY THAT PLACE CALLED PERADVENTURE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE SINGING OF THE BEES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE WHITE OMEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE SOJOURNERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE TENT OF THE PURPLE MAT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + THE GOLDEN PIPES + </h2> + <p> + They hung all bronzed and shining, on the side of Margath Mountain—the + tall and perfect pipes of the organ which was played by some son of God + when the world was young. At least Hepnon the cripple said this was so, + when he was but a child, and when he got older he said that even now a + golden music came from the pipes at sunrise and sunset. And no one laughed + at Hepnon, for you could not look into the dark warm eyes, dilating with + his fancies, or see the transparent temper of his face, the look of the + dreamer over all, without believing him, and reproving your own judgment. + You felt that he had travelled ways you could never travel, that he had + had dreams beyond you, that his fanciful spirit had had adventures you + would give years of your dull life to know. + </p> + <p> + And yet he was not made only as women are made, fragile and trembling in + his nerves. For he was strong of arm, and there was no place in the hills + to be climbed by venturesome man, which he could not climb with crutch and + shrivelled leg. Also, he was a gallant horseman, riding with his knees and + one foot in stirrup, his crutch slung behind him. It may be that was why + rough men listened to his fancies about the Golden Pipes. Indeed they + would go out at sunrise and look across to where the pipes hung, taking + the rosy glory of the morning, and steal away alone at sunset, and in some + lonely spot lean out towards the flaming instrument to hear if any music + rose from them. The legend that one of the Mighty Men of the Kimash Hills + came here to play, with invisible hands, the music of the first years of + the world, became a truth, though a truth that none could prove. And + by-and-by, no man ever travelled the valley without taking off his hat as + he passed the Golden Pipes—so had a cripple with his whimsies worked + upon the land. + </p> + <p> + Then, too, perhaps his music had to do with it. As a child he had only a + poor concertina, but by it he drew the traveller and the mountaineer and + the worker in the valley to him like a magnet. Some touch of the + mysterious, some sweet fantastical melody in all he played, charmed them, + even when he gave them old familiar airs. From the concertina he passed to + the violin, and his skill and mastery over his followers grew; and then + there came a notable day when up over a thousand miles of country a + melodeon was brought him. Then a wanderer, a minstrel outcast from a far + country, taking refuge in those hills, taught him, and there was one long + year of loving labour together, and merry whisperings between the two, and + secret drawings, and worship of the Golden Pipes; and then the minstrel + died, and left Hepnon alone. + </p> + <p> + And now they said that Hepnon tried to coax out of the old melodeon the + music of the Golden Pipes. But a look of sorrow grew upon his face, and + stayed for many months. Then there came a change, and he went into the + woods, and began working there in the perfect summer weather; and the tale + went abroad that he was building an organ, so that he might play for all + who came, the music he heard on the Golden Pipes—for they had + ravished his ear since childhood, and now he must know the wonderful + melodies all by heart, they said. + </p> + <p> + With consummate patience Hepnon dried the wood and fashioned it into long + tuneful tubes, beating out soft metal got from the forge in the valley to + case the lips of them, tanning the leather for the bellows, stretching it, + and exposing all his work to the sun of early morning, which gave every + fibre and valve a rich sweetness, like a sound fruit of autumn. People + also said that he set all the pieces out at sunrise and sunset that the + tone of the Golden Pipes might pass into them, so that when the organ was + built, each part should be saturated with such melody as it had drawn in, + according to its temper and its fibre. + </p> + <p> + So the building of the organ went on, and a year passed, and then another, + and it was summer again; and soon Hepnon began to build also—while + yet it was sweet weather—a home for his organ, a tall nest of cedar + added to his father’s house. And in it every piece of wood, and every + board had been made ready by his own hands, and set in the sun and dried + slowly to a healthy soundness; and he used no nails of metal, but wooden + pins of the iron-wood or hickory tree, and it was all polished, and there + was no paint or varnish anywhere; and when you spoke in this nest your + voice sounded pure and strong. + </p> + <p> + At last the time came when, piece by piece, the organ was set up in its + home; and as the days and weeks went by, and autumn drew to winter, and + the music of the Golden Pipes stole down the flumes of snow to their + ardent lover, and spring came with its sap, and small purple blossoms, and + yellow apples of mandrake, and summer stole on luxurious and dry; the face + of Hepnon became thinner and thinner, a strange deep light shone in his + eyes, and all his person seemed to exhale a kind of glow. He ceased to + ride, to climb, to lift weights with his strong arms, as he had—poor + cripple—been once so proud to do. A delicacy came upon him, and more + and more he withdrew himself to his organ, and to those lofty and lonely + places where he could see—and hear—the Golden Pipes boom + softly over the valley. + </p> + <p> + At last it all was done, even to the fine-carved stool of cedar whereon he + should sit when he played his organ. Never yet had he done more than sound + each note as he made it, trying it, softening it by tender devices with + the wood; but now the hour was come when he should gather down the soul of + the Golden Pipes to his fingers, and give to the ears of the world the + song of the morning stars, the music of Jubal and his comrades, the + affluent melody to which the sons of men, in the first days, paced the + world in time with the thoughts of God. For days he lived alone in the + cedar-house—and who may know what he was doing dreaming, listening, + or praying? Then the word went through the valley and the hills, that one + evening he would play for all who came; and that day was “Toussaint,” or + the Feast of All Souls. + </p> + <p> + So they came both old and young, and they did not enter the house, but + waited outside, upon the mossy rocks, or sat among the trees, and watched + the heavy sun roll down and the Golden Pipes flame in the light of + evening. Far beneath in the valley the water ran lightly on, but there + came no sound from it, none from anywhere; only a general pervasive murmur + quieting to the heart. + </p> + <p> + Now they heard a note come from the organ—a soft low sound that + seemed to rise out of the good earth and mingle with the vibrant air, the + song of birds, the whisper of trees, and the murmuring water. Then came + another, and another note, then chords, and chords upon these, and + by-and-by, rolling tides of melody, until, as it seemed to the listeners, + the air ached with the incomparable song; and men and women wept, and + children hid their heads in the laps of their mothers, and young men and + maidens dreamed dreams never to be forgotten. For one short hour the music + went on, then twilight came. Presently the sounds grew fainter, and + exquisitely painful, and now a low sob seemed to pass through all the + heart of the organ, and then silence fell, and in the sacred pause, Hepnon + came out among them all, pale and desolate. He looked at them a minute + most sadly, and then lifting up his arms towards the Golden Pipes, now + hidden in the dusk, he cried low and brokenly: + </p> + <p> + “O my God, give me back my dream!” + </p> + <p> + Then his crutch seemed to give way beneath him, and he sank upon the + ground, faint and gasping. + </p> + <p> + They raised him up, and women and men whispered in his ear + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the beautiful, beautiful music, Hepnon!” But he only said: “O my God, + O my God, give me back my dream!” When he had said it thrice, he turned + his face to where his organ was in the cedar-house, and then his eyes + closed, and he fell asleep: and they could not wake him. But at sunrise + the next morning a shiver passed through him, and then a cold quiet stole + over him, and Hepnon and the music of the Golden Pipes departed from the + Voshti Hills, and came again no more. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE + </h2> + <h3> + “Height unto height answereth knowledge.” + </h3> + <p> + His was the first watch, the farthest fire, for Shaknon Hill towered above + the great gulf, and looked back also over thirty leagues of country + towards the great city. There came a time again when all the land was + threatened. From sovereign lands far off, two fleets were sailing hard to + reach the wide basin before the walled city, the one to save, the other to + destroy. If Tinoir, the Guardian of the Fire, should sight the destroying + fleet, he must light two fires on Shaknon Hill, and then, at the edge of + the wide basin, in a treacherous channel, the people would send out + fire-rafts to burn the ships of the foe. Five times in the past had Tinoir + been the Guardian of the Fire, and five times had the people praised him; + but praise and his scanty wage were all he got. + </p> + <p> + The hut in which he lived with his wife on another hill, ten miles from + Shaknon, had but two rooms, and their little farm and the garden gave them + only enough to live—no more. Elsewhere there was good land in + abundance, but it had been said years ago to Tinoir by the great men, that + he should live not far from Shaknon, so that in times of peril he might + guard the fire and be sentinel for all the people. Perhaps Tinoir was too + dull to see that he was giving all and getting naught; that while he + waited and watched he was always poor, and also was getting old. There was + no house or home within fifty miles of them, and only now and then some + wandering Indians lifted the latch, and drew in beside their hearth, or a + good priest with a soul of love for others, came and said Mass in the room + where a little Calvary had been put up. Two children had come and gone, + and Tinoir and Dalice had dug their graves and put them in a warm nest of + maple leaves, and afterwards lived upon the memories of them. But after + these two, children came no more; and Tinoir and Dalice grew closer and + closer to each other, coming to look alike in face, as they had long been + alike in mind and feeling. None ever lived nearer to nature than they, and + wild things grew to be their friends; so that you might see Dalice at her + door tossing crumbs with one hand to birds, and with the other bits of + meat to foxes, martens, and wild dogs, which came and went unharmed by + them. Tinoir shot no wild animals for profit—only for food and for + skins and furs to wear. Because of this he was laughed at by all who knew, + save the priest of St. Sulpice, who, on Easter Day, when the little man + came yearly to Mass over two hundred miles of country, praised him to his + people, and made much of him, though Tinoir was not vain enough to see it. + </p> + <p> + When word came down the river, and up over the hills to Tinoir, that war + was come and that he must go to watch for the hostile fleet and for the + friendly fleet as well, he made no murmur, though it was the time of + harvest, and Dalice had had a sickness from which she was not yet + recovered. + </p> + <p> + “Go, my Tinoir,” said Dalice, with a little smile, “and I will reap the + grain. If your eyes are sharp you shall see my bright sickle moving in the + sun.” + </p> + <p> + “There is the churning of the milk too, Dalice,” answered Tinoir; “you are + not strong, and sometimes the butter comes slow; and there’s the milking + also.” + </p> + <p> + “Strength is coming to me fast, Tinoir,” she said, and drew herself up; + but her dress lay almost flat on her bosom. Tinoir took her arm and felt + it above the elbow. + </p> + <p> + “It is like the muscle of a little child,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “But I will drink those bottles of red wine the Governor sent the last + time you watched the fire on Shaknon,” she said, brightening up, and + trying to cheer him. He nodded, for he saw what she was trying to do, and + said: “Also a little of the gentian and orange root three times a day-eh, + Dalice?” + </p> + <p> + After arranging for certain signs, by little fires, which they were to + light upon the hills and so speak with each other, they said, “Good day, + Dalice,” and “Good day, Tinoir,” drank a glass of the red wine, and added: + “Thank the good God;” then Tinoir wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and + went away, leaving Dalice with a broken glass at her feet, and a look in + her eyes which it was well that Tinoir did not see. + </p> + <p> + But as he went he was thinking how, the night before, Dalice had lain with + her arm round his neck hour after hour as she slept, as she did before + they ever had a child; and that even in her sleep, she kissed him as she + used to kiss him before he brought her away from the parish of Ste. + Genevieve to be his wife. And the more he thought about it the happier he + became, and more than once he stopped and shook his head in pleased + retrospection. And Dalice thought of it too as she hung over the churn, + her face drawn and tired and shining with sweat; and she shook her head, + and tears came into her eyes, for she saw further into things than Tinoir. + And once as she passed his coat on the wall, she rubbed it softly with her + hand, as she might his curly head when he lay beside her. + </p> + <p> + From Shaknon Tinoir watched; but of course he could never see her bright + sickle shining, and he could not know whether her dress still hung loose + upon her breast, or whether the flesh of her arms was still like a + child’s. If all was well with Dalice a little fire should be lighted at + the house door just at the going down of the sun, and it should be at once + put out. If she was ill, a fire should be lit and then put out two hours + after sundown. If she should be ill beyond any help, this fire should burn + on till it went out. + </p> + <p> + Day after day Tinoir, as he watched for the coming fleet, saw the fire lit + at sundown, and then put out. But one night the fire did not come till two + hours after sundown, and it was put out at once. He fretted much, and he + prayed that Dalice might be better, and he kept to his post, looking for + the fleet of the foe. Evening after evening was this other fire lighted + and then put out at once; and a great longing came to him to leave this + guarding of the fire, and go to her—“For half a day,” he said—“just + for half a day!” But in that half day the fleet might pass, and then it + would be said that Tinoir had betrayed his country. At last sleep left + him, and he fought a demon night and day; and always he remembered + Dalice’s arm about his neck, and her kisses that last night they were + together. Twice he started away from his post to go to her, but before he + had gone a hundred paces he came back. + </p> + <p> + At last one afternoon he saw ships, not far off, rounding the great cape + in the gulf, and after a time, at sunset, he knew by their shape it was + the fleet of the foe; and so he lighted his great fires, and they were + answered leagues away towards the city by another beacon. + </p> + <p> + Two hours after sunset of this day the fire in front of Tinoir’s home was + lighted, and was not put out, and Tinoir sat and watched it till it died + away. So he lay in the light of his own great war-fire till morning, for + he could not travel at night, and then, his duty over, he went back to his + home. He found Dalice lying beside the ashes of her fire, past hearing all + he said in her ear, unheeding the kiss he set upon her lips. + </p> + <p> + Two nights afterwards, coming back from laying her beside her children, he + saw a great light in the sky towards the city, as of a huge fire. When the + courier came to him bearing the Governor’s message and the praise of the + people, and told of the enemy’s fleet destroyed by the fire-rafts, he + stared at the man, then turned his head to a place where a pine cross + showed against the green grass, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Dalice—my wife—is dead.” + </p> + <p> + “You have saved your country, Tinoir,” answered the courier kindly. + </p> + <p> + “I have lost Dalice!” he said, and fondled the rosary Dalice used to carry + when she lived; and he would speak to the man no more. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BY THAT PLACE CALLED PERADVENTURE + </h2> + <p> + By that place called Peradventure in the Voshti Hills dwelt Golgothar the + strong man, who, it was said, could break an iron pot with a blow, or pull + a tall sapling from the ground. + </p> + <p> + “If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would go and + conquer Nooni, the city of our foes.” + </p> + <p> + Because he had not the hundred men he did not go; and Nooni still sent + insults to the country of Golgothar, and none could travel safe between + the capitals. And Golgothar was sorry. + </p> + <p> + “If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would build a dyke + to keep the floods back from the people crowded on the lowlands.” + </p> + <p> + Because he had not the hundred men, now and again the floods came down, + and swept the poor folk out to sea, or laid low their habitations. And + Golgothar pitied them. + </p> + <p> + “If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would clear the + wild boar from the forests, that the children should not fear to play + among the trees.” + </p> + <p> + Because he had not the hundred men the graves of children multiplied, and + countless mothers sat by empty beds and mourned. And Golgothar put his + head between his knees in trouble for them. + </p> + <p> + “If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would with great + stones mend the broken pier, and the bridge between the islands should not + fall.” Because he had not the hundred men, at last the bridge gave way, + and a legion of the king’s army were carried to the whirlpool, where they + fought in vain. And Golgothar made a feast of remembrance to them, and + tears dripped on his beard when he said: “Hail and Farewell!” + </p> + <p> + “If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would go against + the walls of chains our rebels built, and break them one by one.” + </p> + <p> + Because he had not the hundred men, the chain walls blocked the only pass + between the hills, and so cut in two the kingdom: and they who pined for + corn went wanting, and they who yearned for fish stayed hungry. And + Golgothar, brooding, said his heart bled for his country. + </p> + <p> + “If I had a hundred men so strong,” said Golgothar, “I would go among the + thousand brigands of Mirnan, and bring again the beloved daughter of our + city.” + </p> + <p> + Because he had not the hundred men the beloved lady languished in her + prison, for the brigands asked as ransom the city of Talgone which they + hated. And Golgothar carried in his breast a stone image she had given + him, and for very grief let no man speak her name before him. + </p> + <p> + “If I had a hundred men so strong—” said Golgothar, one day, + standing on a great point of land and looking down the valley. + </p> + <p> + As he said it, he heard a laugh, and looking down he saw Sapphire, or + Laugh of the Hills, as she was called. A long staff of iron-wood was in + her hands, with which she jumped the dykes and streams and rocky fissures; + in her breast were yellow roses, and there was a tuft of pretty feathers + in her hair. She reached up and touched him on the breast with her staff, + then she laughed again, and sang a snatch of song in mockery: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am a king, + I have no crown, + I have no throne to sit in—” + </pre> + <p> + “Pull me up, boy,” she said. She wound a leg about the staff, and, taking + hold, he drew her up as if she had been a feather. + </p> + <p> + “If I had a hundred mouths I would kiss you for that,” she said, still + mocking; “but having only one, I’ll give it to the cat, and weep for + Golgothar.” + </p> + <p> + “Silly jade,” he said, and turned towards his tent. + </p> + <p> + As they passed a slippery and dangerous place, where was one strong + solitary tree, she suddenly threw a noose over him, drew it fast and + sprang far out over the precipice into the air. Even as she did so, he + jumped behind the tree, and clasped it, else on the slippery place he + would have gone over with her. The rope came taut, and presently he drew + her up again to safety, and while she laughed at him and mocked him, he + held her tight under his arm, and carried her to his lodge, where he let + her go. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you do it, devil’s madcap?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you wait for the hundred men so strong?” she laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you jump behind the tree? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘If I had a hundred men, heigho, + I would buy my corn for a penny a gill. + If I had a hundred men or so, + I would dig a grave for the maid of the hill, heigho!’” + </pre> + <p> + He did not answer her, but stirred the soup in the pot and tasted it, and + hung a great piece of meat over the fire. Then he sat down, and only once + did he show anger as she mocked him, and that was when she thrust her hand + into his breast, took out the little stone image, and said: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If a little stone god had a hundred hearts, + Would a little stone goddess trust in one?” + </pre> + <p> + Then she made as if she would throw it into the fire, but he caught her + hand and crushed it, so that she cried out for pain and anger, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Brute of iron, go break the posts in the brigands’ prison-house, but + leave a poor girl’s wrist alone. If I had a hundred men—” she added, + mocking wildly again, and then, springing at him, put her two thumbs at + the corners of his eyes, and cried: “Stir a hand, and out they will come—your + eyes for my bones!” + </p> + <p> + He did not stir till her fury was gone. Then he made her sit down and eat + with him, and afterwards she said softly to him, and without a laugh: “Why + should the people say, ‘Golgothar is our shame, for he has great strength, + and yet he does nothing but throw great stones for sport into the sea’?” + </p> + <p> + He had the simple mind of a child, and he listened to her patiently, and + at last got up and began preparing for a journey, cleaning all his + weapons, and gathering them together. She understood him, and she said, + with a little laugh like music: “One strong man is better than a hundred—a + little key will open a great door easier than a hundred hammers. What is + the strength of a hundred bullocks without this?” she added, tapping him + on the forehead. + </p> + <p> + Then they sat down and talked together quietly for a long time; and at + sunset she saw him start away upon great errands. + </p> + <p> + Before two years had gone, Nooni, the city of their foes, was taken; the + chain wall of the rebels opened to the fish and corn of the poor; the + children wandered in the forest without fear of wild boars; the dyke was + built to save the people in the lowlands; and Golgothar carried to the + castle the King had given him the daughter of the city, freed from Mirnan. + </p> + <p> + “If Golgothar had a hundred wives—” said a voice to the strong man + as he entered the castle gates. Looking up he saw Sapphire. He stretched + out his hand to her in joy and friendship. + </p> + <p> + “—I would not be one of them,” she added, with a mocking laugh, as + she dropped from the wall, leaped the moat by the help of her staff, and + danced away laughing. There are those who say, however that tears fell + down her cheeks as she laughed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SINGING OF THE BEES + </h2> + <h3> + “Mother, didst thou not say thy prayers last night?” + </h3> + <p> + “Twice, my child.” + </p> + <p> + “Once before the little shrine, and once beside my bed—is it not + so?” + </p> + <p> + “It is so, my Fanchon. What hast thou in thy mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Thou didst pray that the storm die in the hills, and the flood cease, and + that my father come before it was again the hour of prayer. It is now the + hour. Canst thou not hear the storm and the wash of the flood? And my + father does not come!” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Fanchon, God is good.” + </p> + <p> + “When thou wast asleep I rose from my bed, and in the dark I kissed the + feet of—Him—on the little Calvary; and I did not speak, but in + my heart I called.” + </p> + <p> + “What didst thou call, my child?” + </p> + <p> + “I called to my father: ‘Come back-come back!’” + </p> + <p> + “Thou shouldst have called to God, my Fanchon.” + </p> + <p> + “I loved my father, and I called to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Thou shouldst love God.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew my father first. If God loved thee, He would answer thy prayer. + Dost thou not hear the cracking of the cedar trees and the cry of the + wolves—they are afraid. All day and all night the rain and wind come + down, and the birds and wild fowl have no peace. I kissed—His feet, + and my throat was full of tears; but I called in my heart. Yet the storm + and the dark stay, and my father does not come.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us be patient, my Fanchon.” + </p> + <p> + “He went to guide the priest across the hills. Why does not God guide him + back?” + </p> + <p> + “My Fanchon, let us be patient.” + </p> + <p> + “The priest was young, and my father has grey hair.” + </p> + <p> + “Wilt thou not be patient, my child?” + </p> + <p> + “He filled the knapsack of the priest with food better than his own, and—thou + didst not see it—put money in his hand.” + </p> + <p> + “My own, the storm may pass.” + </p> + <p> + “He told the priest to think upon our home as a little nest God set up + here for such as he.” + </p> + <p> + “There are places of shelter in the hills for thy father, my Fanchon.” + </p> + <p> + “And when the priest prayed, ‘That Thou mayst bring us safely to this + place where we would go,’ my father said so softly, ‘We beseech Thee to + hear us, good Lord!’” + </p> + <p> + “My Fanchon, thy father hath gone this trail many times.” + </p> + <p> + “The prayer was for the out-trail, not the in-trail, my mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, I do not understand thee.” + </p> + <p> + “A swarm of bees came singing through the room last night, my mother. It + was dark and I could not see, but there was a sweet smell, and I heard the + voices.” + </p> + <p> + “My child, thou art tired with watching, and thy mind is full of fancies. + Thou must sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “I am tired of watching. Through the singing of the bees as they passed + over my bed, I heard my father’s voice. I could not hear the words, they + seemed so far away, like the voices of the bees; and I did not cry out, + for the tears were in my throat. After a moment the room was so still that + it made my heart ache.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my Fanchon, my child, thou dost break my heart! Dost thou not know + the holy words?” + </p> + <p> + “‘And their souls do pass like singing bees, where no man may follow. + These are they whom God gathereth out of the whirlwind and the desert, and + bringeth home in a goodly swarm.’” + </p> + <p> + Night drew close to the earth, and as suddenly as a sluice-gate drops and + holds back a flood the storm ceased. Along the crest of the hills there + slowly grew a line of light, and then the serene moon came up and on, + persistent to give the earth love where it had had punishment. Divers + flocks of clouds, camp-followers of the storm, could not abash her. But + once she drew shrinking back behind a slow troop of them; for down at the + bottom of a gorge lay a mountaineer, face upward and unmoving, as he had + lain since a rock loosened beneath him, and the depths swallowed him. If + he had had ears to hear, he would have answered the soft, bitter cries + which rose from a but on the Voshti Hills above him: + </p> + <p> + “Michel, Michel, art thou gone?” + </p> + <p> + “Come back, oh, my father, come back!” + </p> + <p> + But perhaps it did avail that there were lighted candles before a little + shrine, and that a mother, in her darkness, kissed the feet of One on a + Calvary. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WHITE OMEN + </h2> + <h3> + “Ah, Monsieur, Monsieur, come quick!” + </h3> + <p> + “My son, wilt thou not be patient?” + </p> + <p> + “But she—my Fanchon—and the child!” + </p> + <p> + “I knew thy Fanchon, and her father, when thou wast yet a child.” + </p> + <p> + “But they may die before we come, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “These things are in God’s hands, Gustave.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not a father; you have never known what makes the world seem + nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew thy Fanchon’s father.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that the same?” + </p> + <p> + “There are those who save and those who die for others. Of thy love thou + wouldst save—the woman hath lain in thine arms, the child is of + this. But to thy Fanchon’s father I was merely a priest—we had not + hunted together nor met often about the fire, and drew fast the curtains + for the tales which bring men close. He took me safely on the out-trail, + but on the home-trail he was cast away. Dost thou not think the love of + him that stays as great as the love of him that goes?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, thou wouldst go far to serve my wife and child!” + </p> + <p> + “Love knows not distance; it hath no continent; its eyes are for the + stars, its feet for the swords; it continueth, though an army lay waste + the pasture; it comforteth when there are no medicines; it hath the relish + of manna; and by it do men live in the desert.” + </p> + <p> + “But if it pass from a man, that which he loves, and he is left alone, + Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “That which is loved may pass, but love hath no end.” + </p> + <p> + “Thou didst love my Fanchon’s father?” + </p> + <p> + “I prayed him not to go, for a storm was on, but there was the thought of + wife and child on him—the good Michel—and he said: ‘It is the + home-trail, and I must get to my nest.’ Poor soul, poor soul! I who carry + my life as a leaf in autumn for the west wind was saved, and he—!” + </p> + <p> + “We are on the same trail now, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “See: how soft a night, and how goodly is the moon!” + </p> + <p> + “It is the same trail now as then, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “And how like velvet are the shadows in the gorge there below—like + velvet-velvet.” + </p> + <p> + “Like a pall. He travelled this trail, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember thy Fanchon that night—so small a child was she, with + deep brown eyes, a cloud of hair that waved about her head, and a face + that shone like spring. I have seen her but once since then, and yet thou + sayest thy Fanchon has now her great hour, that she brings forth?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. In the morning she cried out to me twice, for I am not easy of + waking—shame to me—and said: ‘Gustave, thou shalt go for the + priest over the hills, for my time is at hand, and I have seen the White + Omen on the wall.’ The White Omen—you know, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “What does such as she with the legend of the White Omen, Gustave?” + </p> + <p> + “Who can tell what is in the heart of a mother? Their eyes are not the + eyes of such as we.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither the eyes of man nor priest—thou sayest well. How did she + see it?” + </p> + <p> + “She was lying in a soft sleep, when something like a pain struck through + her eyes, and she waked. There upon the wall over the shrine was the white + arrow with the tuft of fire. It came and went three times, and then she + called me.” + </p> + <p> + “What tale told the arrow to thy Fanchon, Gustave?” + </p> + <p> + “That for the child which cometh into the world a life must go from the + world.” + </p> + <p> + “The world is wide and souls are many, Gustave.” + </p> + <p> + “Most true; but her heart was heavy, and it came upon her that the child + might be spared and herself taken.” + </p> + <p> + “Is not that the light of thy home—yonder against the bunch of + firs?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, good father, they have put a light in the window. See, see, + there are two lights. Ah, merci, merci, they both live! She hath had her + hour! That was the sign our mother promised me.” + </p> + <p> + “Michel’s wife—ah, yes, Michel’s wife! Blessed be God. A moment, + Gustave; let us kneel here...” + </p> + <p> + ... “Monsieur, did you not see a white arrow shoot down the sky as the + prayer ended?” + </p> + <p> + “My son, it was a falling star.” + </p> + <p> + “It seemed to have a tuft of fire.” + </p> + <p> + “Hast thou also the mind of a woman, Gustave?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell. If it was not a human soul it was a world, and death is + death.” + </p> + <p> + “Thou shalt think of life, Gustave. In thy nest there are two birds where + was but one. Keep in thy heart the joy of life and the truth of love, and + the White Omen shall be naught to thee.” + </p> + <p> + “May I say ‘thou’ as I speak?” + </p> + <p> + “Thou shalt speak as I speak to thee.” + </p> + <p> + “Thy face is pale-art thou ill, mon pere?” + </p> + <p> + “I have no beard, and the moon shines in my face.” + </p> + <p> + “Thy look is as that of one without sight.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, nay, I can see the two lights in thy window, my son.” + </p> + <p> + “Joy—joy, a little while, and I shall clasp my Fanchon in my arms!” + </p> + <p> + “Thy Fanchon, and the child—and the child.” + </p> + <p> + The fire sent a trembling glow through the room of a hut on a Voshti hill, + and the smell of burning fir and camphire wood filtered through the air + with a sleepy sweetness. So delicate and faint between the quilts lay the + young mother, the little Fanchon, a shining wonder still in her face, and + the exquisite touch of birth on her—for when a child is born the + mother also is born again. So still she lay until one who gave her into + the world stooped, and drawing open the linen at her breast, nestled a + little life there, which presently gave a tiny cry, the first since it + came forth. Then Fanchon’s arms drew up, and, with eyes all tenderly + burning, she clasped the babe to her breast, and as silk breast touched + silk cheek, there sprang up in her the delight and knowledge that the doom + of the White Omen was not for herself. Then she called the child by its + father’s name, and said into the distance: “Gustave, Gustave, come back!” + </p> + <p> + And the mother of Fanchon, remembering one night so many years before, + said, under her breath: “Michel, Michel, thou art gone so long!” + </p> + <p> + With their speaking, Gustave and the priest entered on them; and Fanchon + crying out for joy, said: + </p> + <p> + “Kiss thy child—thy little Gustave, my husband.” Then, to the + priest: + </p> + <p> + “Last night I saw the White Omen, mon pere; and one could not die, nor let + the child die, without a blessing. But we shall both live now.” + </p> + <p> + The priest blessed all, and long time he talked with the wife of the lost + Michel. When he rose to go to bed she said to him: “The journey has been + too long, mon pere. Your face is pale and you tremble. Youth has no + patience. Gustave hurried you.” + </p> + <p> + “Gustave yearned for thy Fanchon and the child. The White Omen made him + afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “But the journey was too much. It is a hard, a bitter trail.” + </p> + <p> + “I have come gladly as I went once with thy Michel. But, as thou sayest, I + am tired—at my heart. I will get to my rest.” + </p> + <p> + Near dawn Gustave started from the bed where he sat watching, for he saw + the White Omen over against the shrine, and then a voice said, as it were + out of a great distance: + </p> + <p> + “Even me also, O my father!” + </p> + <p> + With awed footsteps, going to see, he found that a man had passed out upon + that trail by which no hunter from life can set a mark to guide a comrade; + leaving behind the bones and flesh which God set up, too heavy to carry on + so long a journey. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SOJOURNERS + </h2> + <h3> + “My father, shall we soon be there?” + </h3> + <p> + The man stopped, and shading his eyes with his hand, looked long before + him into the silver haze. They were on the southern bank of a wide valley, + flanked by deep hills looking wise as grey-headed youth, a legion of close + comrades, showing no gap in their ranks. They seemed to breathe; to sit, + looking down into the valley, with heads dropped on their breasts, and + deep overshadowed eyes, that never changed, in mist or snow, or sun, or + any kind of weather: dark brooding lights that knew the secrets of the + world, watchful yet kind. Races, ardent with longing, had come and gone + through the valley, had passed the shining porches in the North on the way + to the quiet country; and they had never come again, though shadows + flitted back and forth when the mists came down: visiting spirits, + hungering on the old trail for some that had dropped by the way. As the + ages passed, fewer and fewer travelled through the valley-no longer a + people or a race, but twos and threes, and sometimes a small company, like + soldiers of a battered guard, and oftener still solitary pilgrims, broken + with much travel and bowed with loneliness. But they always cried out with + joy when they beheld far off in the North, at the end of the long trail, + this range of grey and violet hills break into golden gaps with scarlet + walls, and rivers of water ride through them pleasantly. Then they hurried + on to the opal haze that hung at the end of the valley—and who heard + ever of any that wished to leave the Scarlet Hills and the quiet country + beyond! + </p> + <p> + The boy repeated his question: “My father, shall we soon be there?” + </p> + <p> + The man withdrew his hand from over his eyes, and a strange smile came to + his lips. + </p> + <p> + “My son,” he answered, “canst thou not see? Yonder, through the gentle + mist, are the Scarlet Hills. Our journey is near done.” + </p> + <p> + The boy lifted his head and looked. “I can see nothing but the mist, my + father—not the Scarlet Hills. I am tired, I would sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Thou shalt sleep soon. The wise men told us of the Delightful Chateau at + the gateway of the hills. Courage, my son! If I gave thee the golden balls + to toss, would it cheer thee?” + </p> + <p> + “My father, I care not for the golden balls; but if I had horse and sword + and a thousand men, I would take a city.” + </p> + <p> + The man laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “If I, my son,” he said, “had a horse and sword and a thousand men, I + would build a city.” + </p> + <p> + “Why dost thou not fly thy falcon, or write thy thoughts upon the sand, as + thou didst yesterday, my father?” + </p> + <p> + The man loosed the falcon from his wrist, and watched it fly away. + </p> + <p> + “My son, I care not for the falcon, nor any more for writing on the + sands.” + </p> + <p> + “My father, if thou didst build a city, I would not tear it down, but I + would keep it with my thousand men. + </p> + <p> + “Thou hast well said, my son.” And the man stooped and kissed the lad on + the forehead. + </p> + <p> + And so they travelled on in silence for a long time, and slowly they came + to the opal haze, which smelled sweet as floating flowers, and gave their + hearts a halcyon restfulness. And glancing down at him many times, the + father saw the lad’s face look serenely wise, without becoming old, and + his brown hair clustered on his forehead with all the life of youth in it. + Yet in his eyes the lad seemed as old as himself. + </p> + <p> + “My father,” said the lad again, “wouldst thou then build a city?” + </p> + <p> + And the father answered: “Nay, my son, I would sow seed, and gather it + into harvest—enough for my needs, no more; and sit quiet in my + doorway when my work was done, and be grateful to the gods.” + </p> + <p> + The lad waited a moment, then answered: “When thou wast a governor in our + own country, thou hadst serfs and retainers without number, and fifty men + to beat upon the shields of brass to tell of thy coming through the gates + of the King’s house; now thou wouldst sow a field and sit quiet in thy + doorway, like the blind seller of seed-cakes ‘gainst the temple.” + </p> + <p> + “Even so, my son.” Then he stooped down, knelt upon his knees, and kissed + the earth solemnly, and when he rose there was a smile upon his face. + </p> + <p> + Then the lad said: “When I was the son of a governor I loved to play with + the golden balls, to shoot at the target for pearls, and to ride the + flamingo down; now I would grind the corn which thou didst reap, and with + oil make seed-cakes for our supper, and sit quiet with thee in thy + doorway.” Then he too stooped down and kissed the earth, and rose up again + with a smile upon his face. + </p> + <p> + And as they went the earth seemed suddenly to blossom anew, the glory of + the Scarlet Hills burst upon them, and they could hear bugles calling far + off and see giant figures trooping along the hills, all scarlet too, with + streaming hair. And presently, near to a lake, there was a great gateway, + and perched upon a rock near it a chateau of divine proportions, on which + was written above the perfect doorway: + </p> + <p> + “The Keeper of the House awaits thee. Enter into Quiet.” + </p> + <p> + And they entered, and were possessed of an incomparable peace. And then + came to them an old man of noble countenance, with eye neither dimmed nor + sunken, and cheek dewy as a child’s, and his voice was like an organ when + it plays the soft thanksgiving of a mother. + </p> + <p> + “Why did ye kiss the earth as ye travelled?” he asked. Then they told him, + each with his own tongue, and he smiled upon them and questioned them of + all their speech by the way; and they answered him all honestly and with + gladness, for the searching of their hearts was a joy and relief. But he + looked most lovingly upon the lad. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldst thou, then, indeed enter the quiet country?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + And the lad answered: “I have lived so long in the noise!” + </p> + <p> + “Thou hast learned all, thou hast lived all,” he answered the boy. “Beyond + the Hills of Scarlet there is quiet, and thou shalt dwell there, thou and + he. Ye have the perfect desire—Go in peace, and know that though ye + are of different years, as men count time, God’s clock strikes the same + for both; for both are of equal knowledge, and have the same desire at + last.” + </p> + <p> + Then, lifting up his hands, he said: “O children of men! O noisy world! + when will ye learn the delectable way?” + </p> + <p> + Slowly they all three came from the Chateau, and through the great + gateway, and passed to the margin of a shining lake. There the two stepped + into a boat that waited for them, of which the rowers were nobly + fashioned, like the Keeper of the House, and as they bowed their heads to + a melodious blessing, the boat drew away. Soon, in the sweet haze, they + looked transfigured and enlarged, majestic figures moving through the + Scarlet Hills to the quiet country. Now the valley through which they had + passed was the Valley of Death, where the young become old, and the old + young, and all become wise. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TENT OF THE PURPLE MAT + </h2> + <p> + The Tent stands on the Mount of Lost Winters, in that bit of hospitable + land called the Fair Valley, which is like no other in the North. Whence + comes the soft wind that comforts it, who can tell? It swims through the + great gap in the mountains, and passing down the valley, sinks upon the + prairie of the Ten Stars, where it is lost. What man first placed the Tent + on the Mount none knows, though legends are many. It has a clear outlook + to the north, whence comes the gracious wind, and it is sheltered at the + south by a stout wall of commendable trees; yet these are at some small + distance, so that the Tent has a space all about it, and the figure of the + general land is as that of an amphitheatre. + </p> + <p> + It is made of deerskin, dyed by a strange process which turned it white, + and doctored by some cunning medicine. It is like a perfect parchment, and + shows no decay. It has a centre-pole of excellent fir, and from its peak + flies a strip of snake-skin, dyed a red which never fades. For the greater + part of the year the plateau whereon the Tent stands is covered with a + sweet grass, and when the grass dies there comes a fine white frost, + ungoverned by the sun, in which the footstep sinks, as into an unfilled + honeycomb. + </p> + <p> + The land has few clouds, and no storms, save of the lightest-rain which is + as mist, and snow which is as frosty haze. The sun cherishes the place + continually, and the moon rises on it with a large rejoicing. + </p> + <p> + Yet no man dwells in the valley. It is many scores of leagues from any + habitation, from the lodges of the Indians or the posts of the Company’s + people. There are few tribes that know of it, and these go not to it as + tribes, but as one man or one woman has need. Men say that beyond it, in + another amphitheatre of the hills, is the White Valley, the Place of + Peace, where the sleepers are, and the Scarlet Hunter is sentinel. Yet who + knows—since any that have been there are constrained to be silent, + or forget what they have seen? + </p> + <p> + But this valley where the Tent stands is for those who have broken the + commandment, “Thou shalt not sell thy soul.” Hither they come and wait and + desire continually; and this delightful land is their punishment, for they + have no relish for goodly things, the power to enjoy going from them when + they bargained their souls away. The great peace, the noble pasturage, the + equal joy of day and night wherein is neither heat nor cold, where life is + like the haze on a harvest-field, are for chastisement, till that by great + patience and striving, some one, having the gift of sacrifice, shall give + his life to buy back that soul. For it is in the minds of this people of + the North that for every life that comes into the world one passes out, + and for every soul which is bartered away another must be set free ere it + can be redeemed. + </p> + <p> + Men and women whom life and their own sins had battered came seeking the + Tent; but they were few and they were chiefly old, for conscience cometh + mostly when man can work and wanton no more. Yet one day, when the sight + of the valley was most fair to their eyes, there came out of the southmost + corner a girl, who, as soon as she set foot in the valley, laid aside her + knapsack in the hollow of a tree, also her moccasins and a little cap of + fur, and came on with bare head and feet towards the Mount of the Lost + Winters. + </p> + <p> + She was of good stature, ripely made, not beautiful of face, but with a + look which would make any man turn twice to see, a very glory of fine + hair, and a hand which spoke oftener than the lips. She had come a month’s + travel, scarcely halting from sunrise to sunset, and she was as worn in + body as in spirit. Now, as she passed up the valley she stood still + several times, and looked round in a kind of dream, as well one might who + had come out of an inclement south country to this sweet nourishment. Yet + she stood not still for joy and content, but for pain. Once or twice she + lifted up her hands above her head as though appealing, but these pauses + were only for brief moments, for she kept moving on towards the mountain + with a swift step. When she had climbed the plateau where the delicate + grass yielded with a tender spring to the feet, she paused long and gazed + round, as though to take a last glance at all; then, turning to the Tent, + looked steadfastly at it, awe and wonder, and something more difficult of + interpretation, in her face. At last she slowly came to the curtain of the + Tent, and lifting it, without a pause stepped inside, the curtain falling + behind her. + </p> + <p> + The Tent was empty save for the centre-pole, a wooden trough of dried + fruit, a jar of water, and a mat of the most gentle purple colour, which + was laid between the centre-pole and the tent-curtain. The mat was of + exquisite make, as it seemed from the chosen fibres of some perfect wood, + and the hue was as that of a Tyrian dye. A soft light pervaded the place, + perhaps filtered through the parchment-like white skin of the Tent, for it + seemed to have no other fountain. Upon the farther side a token was drawn + in purple on the tentskin, and the girl, seeing it, turned quickly to the + curtain through which she had passed. Upon the curtain were other signs. + She read them slowly, and repeated them out loud in a low uncertain voice, + like a bird’s note blundering in a flute: + </p> + <p> + “Four hours shalt thou look northward, kneeling on the Mat of Purple, and + thinking of the Camp of the Delightful Fires, around which is the Joyous + City; four hours shalt thou lie prone, thy face upon the soothing earth, + desiring sleep; and four hours shalt thou look within thine own breast, + thinking of thy sin; four hours also shalt thou go through the valley, + calling out that thou art lost, and praying the Scarlet Hunter to bring + thee home. Afterwards thou shalt sleep, and thou shalt comfort thyself + with food when thou wilt. If the Scarlet Hunter comes not, and thy life + faileth for misery, and none comprehending thy state offereth his life, + that thy soul may be free once more—then thou shalt gladly die, and, + yielding thine own body, shall purchase back thy soul; but this is not + possible until thou hast dwelt here a year and a day.” + </p> + <p> + Having read, the girl threw herself face forward on the ground, her body + shaking with grief, and she cried out a man’s name many times with great + bitterness “Ambroise! Ambroise! Ambroise!” + </p> + <p> + A long time she lay prone, crying so; but at last arose and, folding back + the curtain with hot hands, began her vigil for the redemption of a soul. + </p> + <p> + And while her sorrow grew, a father mourned for his daughter and called + his God to witness that he was guiltless of her loss, though he had said + hard words to her by reason of a man called Ambroise. Then, too, the + preacher had exhorted her late and early till her mind was in a maze—it + is enough to have the pangs of youth and love, to be awakened by the pain + of mere growth and knowledge, without the counsel of the overwise to go + jolting through the soul. + </p> + <p> + The girl was only eighteen. She had never known her mother, she had lived + as the flowers do, and when her hour of trial came she felt herself cast + like a wandering bird out of the nest. In her childhood she had known no + preachers, no teaching, save the wholesome catechism of a father’s love + and the sacred intimacy of Nature. Living so, learning by signs the + language of law and wisdom, she had indrawn the significance of legend, + the power of the awful natural. She had made her own commandments. + </p> + <p> + When Ambroise the courier came, she had looked into his eyes and seen her + own—indeed, it was most wonderful, for those two pairs of eyes were + as those of one person. And each, as each looked, smiled—that smile + which is the coming laughter of a heart at itself. Yet they were different—he + a man, she a woman; he versed in evil, she taught in good; he a vagrant of + the snows, the fruit of whose life was like the contemptible stones of the + desert; she the keeper of a goodly lodge, past which flowed a water that + went softly, making rich the land, the fountain of her perfect deeds. He, + looking into her eyes, saw himself when he had no sin on his soul; and she + into his—as it seemed, her own always—saw herself as it were + in a cobweb of evils which she could not understand. As his heart grew + lighter, hers grew sick, even when she knew that these were the only eyes + in which she could ever see happiness. + </p> + <p> + It grew upon her that Ambroise’s sins were hers and not his; that she, not + he, had bartered a soul for the wages of sin. When they said at the Fort + that her eyes and Ambroise’s, and her face and his, were as of one piece, + the pain of the thought deepened, and other pains came likewise, for her + father and the preacher urged that a man who had sold himself to the devil + was no comrade for her in little or much. Yet she loved him as only they + can who love for the first time, and with the deep primitive emotions + which are out of the core of nature. But her heart had been cloven as by a + wedge, and she would not, and could not, lie in his arms, nor rest her + cheek to his, nor seek that haven where true love is fastened like a nail + on the wall of that inn called home. He was herself, he must be brought + back; and so, one night, while yet the winter was on, she stole away out + of the Fort, pausing at his door a moment only, laying her hand upon it as + one might tenderly lay it on the brow of a sick sleeper. Then she stepped + away out on the plains, pointing her course by the moon, for the Mount of + Lost Winters and the Tent of the Purple Mat. + </p> + <p> + When the people of the Fort waked, and it was found that she was gone, + search parties sallied out, but returned as they went after many days. And + at last, because Ambroise suffered as one ground between rolling stones, + even the preacher and the father of the girl relented towards him. After + some weeks there came word through a wandering tribe that the body of a + girl had been found on the Child o’ Sin River, and black pelts were hung + as mourning on the lodges and houses and walls of the Fort, and the father + shut himself in his room, admitting no one. Still, they mourned without + great cause. + </p> + <p> + But, if the girl had taken the sins of Ambroise with her, she had left him + beside that soft flowing river of her goodness; and the savour of the + herbs on its banks was to him like the sun on a patch of pennyroyal, + bringing medicine to the sick body through the nostrils. So one morning, + after many months, having crept from the covert of remorse, he took a + guide to start him in the right trail, and began his journey to the + Valley, whither she had gone before him, though he knew it not. From the + moment that his guide left him dangers beset him, and those spirits called + the Mockers, which are the evil deeds of a man crying to Heaven, came + crying about him from the dead white trees, breathing through the powdery + air, whistling down the moonlight; so that to cheer him he called out + again and again, like any heathen: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Keeper, O Keeper of the Kimash Hills! + I am as a dog in the North Sea, + I am as a bat in a cave, + As a lizard am I on a prison wall, + As a tent with no pole, + As a bird with one wing; + I am as a seal in the desert, + I am as a wild horse alone. + O Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills! + Thou hast an arm like a shooting star, + Thou hast an eye like the North Sky fires, + Thou hast a pouch for the hungry, + Thou hast a tent for the lost: + Hear me, O Keeper of the Kimash Hills!” + </pre> + <p> + And whether or not this availed him, who can tell? There be many names of + the One Thing, and the human soul hath the same north and south, if there + be any north and south and east and west, save in the words of men. But + something availed; and one day a footworn traveller, entering the Valley + at the southmost corner, laid his cap and bag, moccasins, bow and arrow, + and an iron weapon away in a hollow log, seeing not that there were also + another bag and cap, and a pair of moccasins there. Then, barefooted and + bareheaded, he marched slowly up the Valley, and all its loveliness smote + him as a red iron is buffeted at the forge; and an exquisite agony coursed + through his veins, so that he cried out, hiding his face. And yet he needs + must look and look, all his sight aching with this perfection, never + overpowering him, but keeping him ever in the relish of his torture. + </p> + <p> + At last he came to the door of the Tent in the late evening, and, intent + not only to buy back the soul he had marketed—for the sake of the + memory of the woman, and believing that none would die for him and that he + must die for himself—he lifted the curtain and entered. Then he gave + a great cry, for there she lay asleep, face downward, her forehead on the + Purple Mat. + </p> + <p> + “Sherah! Sherah!” he cried, dropping on his knees beside her and lifting + up her head. + </p> + <p> + “Ambroise!” she called out faintly, her pale face drawing away from his + breast. + </p> + <p> + “Sherah, why didst thou come here?” he said. “Thou! thou!” + </p> + <p> + “To buy back my soul, Ambroise. And this is the last day of the year that + I have spent here. Oh, why, why didst thou come? To-morrow all should have + been well!” + </p> + <p> + “To buy back thy soul—thou didst no wrong!” But at that moment their + eyes drew close, and changed, and he understood. + </p> + <p> + “For me—for me!” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, for me!” she replied. + </p> + <p> + Then they noticed that the Purple Mat on which they knelt was red under + their knees, and a goodly light shone through the Tent, not of the day or + night. And as they looked amazed, the curtain of the Tent drew open, and + one entered, clothed in red from head to foot; and they knew him to be the + Scarlet Hunter, the lover of the lost, the Keeper of the Kimash Hills. + </p> + <p> + Looking at them steadfastly he said to Sherah: “Thou has prevailed. + To-night, at the setting of the sun, an old man died in Syria who uttered + thy name as in a dream when he passed. The soul of Ambroise hath been + bought back by thee.” + </p> + <p> + Then he spoke to Ambroise. “Because thy spirit was willing, and for the + woman’s sake thou shalt have peace; but this year which she has spent for + thee shall be taken from thy life, and added to hers. Come, and I will + start ye on the swift trail to your own country, and ye shall come here no + more.” + </p> + <p> + As they rose, obeying him, they saw that the red of the Mat had gone a + perfect white, and they knew not what to think, for they had acted after + the manner of the heathen; but that night, as they travelled with joy + towards that Inn called Home, down at the Fort, a preacher with rude noise + cried to those who would hear him: “Though your sins be as scarlet they + shall become whiter than snow.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY + </h2> + <p> + It lay between the mountains and the sea, and a river ran down past it, + carrying its good and ill news to a pacific shore, and out upon soft + winds, travelling lazily to the scarlet east. All white and a tempered + red, it nestled in a valley with other valleys on lower steppes, which + seemed as if built by the gods, that they might travel easily from the + white-topped mountains, Margath, Shaknon, and the rest, to wash their feet + in the sea. In the summer a hot but gracious mistiness softened the green + of the valleys, the varying colours of the hills, the blue of the river, + the sharp outlines of the cliffs. Along the high shelf of the mountain, + muletrains travelled like a procession seen in dreams—slow, hazy, + graven yet moving, a part of the ancient hills themselves; upon the river + great rafts, manned by scarlet-vested crews, swerved and swam, guided by + the gigantic oars which needed five men to lift and swayargonauts they + from the sweet-smelling forests to the salt-smelling main. In winter the + little city lay still under a coverlet of pure white, with the mists from + the river and the great falls above frozen upon the trees, clothing them + as graciously as with white samite; so that far as eye could see there was + a heavenly purity upon all, covering every mean and distorted thing. There + were days when no wind stirred anywhere, and the gorgeous sun made the + little city and all the land round about a pretty silver kingdom, where + Oberon and his courtiers might have danced and been glad. Often, too, you + could hear a distant wood-cutter’s axe make a pleasant song in the air, + and the wood-cutter himself, as the hickory and steel swung in a shining + half-circle to the bole of balsam, was clad in the bright livery of frost, + his breath issuing in grey smoke like life itself, mystic and peculiar, + man, axe, tree, and breath one common being. And when, by-and-by, the + woodcutter added a song of his own to the song his axe made, the illusion + was not lost, but rather heightened; for it, too, was part of the + unassuming pride of nature, childlike in its simplicity, primeval in its + suggestion and expression. The song had a soft monotony, swinging + backwards and forwards to the waving axe like the pendulum of a clock. It + began with a low humming, as one could think man made before he heard the + Voice which taught him how to speak. And then came the words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “None shall stand in the way of the lord, + The lord of the Earth—of the rivers and trees, + Of the cattle and fields and vines! + Hew! + Here shall I build me my cedar home, + A city with gates, a road to the sea + For I am the lord of the Earth! + Hew! Hew! + Hew and hew, and the sap of the tree + Shall be yours, and your bones shall be strong, + Shall be yours, and your heart shall rejoice, + Shall be yours, and the city be yours, + And the key of its gates be the key + Of the home where your little ones dwell. + Hew and be strong! Hew and rejoice! + For man is the lord of the Earth, + And God is the Lord over all!” + </pre> + <p> + And so long as the little city stands will this same wood-cutter’s name + and history stand also. He had camped where it stood now, when nothing was + there save the wild duck in the reeds, the antelopes upon the hills, and + all manner of furred and feathered things; and it all was his. He had seen + the yellow flashes of gold in the stream called Pipi, and he had not + gathered it, for his life was simple, and he was young enough to cherish + in his heart the love of the open world, beyond the desire of cities and + the stir of the market-place. In those days there was not a line in his + face, not an angle in his body—all smoothly rounded and lithe and + alert, like him that was called “the young lion of Dedan.” Day by day he + drank in the wisdom of the hills and the valleys, and he wrote upon the + dried barks of trees the thoughts that came as he lay upon the bearskin in + his tent, or cooled his hands and feet, of a hot summer day, in the moist + sandy earth, and watched the master of the deer lead his cohorts down the + passes of the hills. + </p> + <p> + But by-and-by mule-trains began to crawl along the ledges of Margath + Mountain, and over Shaknon came adventurers, and after them, wandering men + seeking a new home, women and children coming also. But when these came he + had passed the spring-time of his years, and had grown fixed in the love + of the valley, where his sole visitors had been passing tribes of Indians, + who knew his moods and trespassed not at all on his domain. The + adventurers hungered for the gold in the rivers, and they made it one long + washing-trough, where the disease that afflicted them passed on from man + to man like poison down a sewer. Then the little city grew, and with the + search for gold came other seekings and findings and toilings, and men who + came as one stops at an inn to feed, stayed to make their home, and women + made the valley cheerful, and children were born, and the pride of the + place was as great as that of some village of the crimson East, where + every man has ancestors to Mahomet and beyond. + </p> + <p> + And he, Felion, who had been lord and master of the valley, worked with + them, but did not seek for riches, and more often drew away into the hills + to find some newer place unspoiled by man. But again and again he + returned; for no fire is like the old fire, and no trail like the old + trail. And at last it seemed as if he had driven his tent-peg in the Long + Valley for ever; for, from among the women who came, he chose one comely + and wise and kind, and for five years the world grew older, and Felion did + not know it. When he danced his little daughter on his knee, he felt that + he had found a new world. + </p> + <p> + But? a day came when trouble fell upon the little city, for of a sudden + the reef of gold was lost, and the great crushing-mills stood idle, and + the sound of the hammers was stayed. And they came to Felion, because in + his youth he had been of the best of the schoolmen; and he got up from his + misery—only the day before his wife had taken a great and lonely + journey to that Country which welcomes, but never yields again—and + leaving his little child behind, he went down to the mines. And in three + days they found the reef once more; for it had curved like the hook of a + sickle, and the first arc of the yellow circle had dropped down into the + bowels of the earth. + </p> + <p> + And so he saved the little city from disaster, and the people blessed him + at the moment; and the years went on. + </p> + <p> + Then there came a time when the little city was threatened with a woeful + flood, because of a breaking flume; but by a simple and wise device Felion + stayed the danger. + </p> + <p> + And again the people blessed him; and the years went on. + </p> + <p> + By-and-by an awful peril came, for two-score children had set a great raft + loose upon the river, and they drifted down towards the rapids in the + sight of the people; and mothers and helpless fathers wrung their hands, + for on the swift tide no boat could reach them, and none could intercept + the raft. But Felion, seeing, ran out upon the girders of a bridge that + was being builded, and there, before them all, as the raft passed under, + he let himself fall, breaking his leg as he dropped among the timbers of + the fore-part of the raft; for the children were all gathered at the back, + where the great oars lay motionless, one dragging in the water behind. + Felion drew himself over to the huge oar, and with the strength of five + men, while the people watched and prayed, he kept the raft straight for + the great slide, else it had gone over the dam and been lost, and all that + were thereon. A mile below, the raft was brought to shore, and again the + people said that Felion had saved the little city from disaster. + </p> + <p> + And they blessed him for the moment; and the years went on. + </p> + <p> + Felion’s daughter grew towards womanhood, and her beauty was great, and + she was welcome everywhere in the valley, the people speaking well of her + for her own sake. But at last a time came when of the men of the valley + one called, and Felion’s daughter came quickly to him, and with tears for + her father and smiles for her husband, she left the valley and journeyed + into the east, having sworn to love and cherish him while she lived. And + her father, left solitary, mourned for her, and drew away into a hill + above the valley in a cedar house that he built; and having little else to + love, loved the earth, and sky, and animals, and the children from the + little city when they came his way. But his heart was sore; for by-and-by + no letters came from his daughter, and the little city, having prospered, + concerned it self no more with him. When he came into its streets there + were those who laughed, for he was very tall and rude, and his grey hair + hung loose on his shoulders, and his dress was still a hunter’s. They had + not long remembered the time when a grievous disease, like a plague, fell + upon the place, and people died by scores, as sheep fall in a murrain. And + again they had turned to him, and he, because he knew of a miraculous + medicine got from Indian sachems, whose people had suffered of this + sickness, came into the little city, and by his medicines and fearless + love and kindness stayed the plague. + </p> + <p> + And thus once more he saved the little city from disaster, and they + blessed him for the moment; and the years went on. + </p> + <p> + In time they ceased to think of Felion at all, and he was left alone; even + the children came no more to visit him; and he had pleasure only in + hunting and shooting and in felling trees, with which he built a high + stockade and a fine cedar house within it. And all the work of this he did + with his own hands, even to the polishing of the floors and the carved + work of the large fireplaces. Yet he never lived in the house, nor in any + room of it, and the stockade gate was always shut; and when any people + passed that way they stared and shrugged their shoulders, and thought + Felion mad or a fool. But he was wise in his own way, which was not the + way of those who had reason to bless him for ever, and who forgot him, + though he had served them through so many years. Against the little city + he had an exceeding bitterness; and this grew, and had it not been that + his heart was kept young by the love of the earth, and the beasts about + him in the hills, he must needs have cursed the place and died. But the + sight of a bird in the nest with her young, and the smell of a lair, and + the light of the dawn that came out of the east, and the winds that came + up from the sea, and the hope that would not die kept him from being of + those who love not life for life’s sake, be it in ease or in sorrow. He + was of those who find all worth the doing, even all worth the suffering; + and so, though he frowned and his lips drew tight with anger when he + looked down at the little city, he felt that elsewhere in the world there + was that which made it worth the saving. + </p> + <p> + If his daughter had been with him he would have laughed at that which his + own hands had founded, protected, and saved. But no word came from her, + and laughter was never on his lips—only an occasional smile when, + perhaps, he saw two sparrows fighting, or watched the fish chase each + other in the river, or a toad, too lazy to jump, walk stupidly like a + convict, dragging his long, green legs behind him. And when Felion looked + up towards Shaknon and Margath, a light came in his eyes, for they were + wise and quiet, and watched the world, and something of their grandeur + drew about him like a cloak. As age cut deep lines in his face and gave + angles to his figure, a strange, settled dignity grew upon him, whether he + swung his axe by the balsams or dressed the skins of the animals he had + killed, piling up the pelts in a long shed in the stockade, a goodly + heritage for his daughter, if she ever came back. Every day at sunrise he + walked to the door of his house and looked eastward steadily, and + sometimes there broke from his lips the words: “My daughter-Carille!” + Again, he would sit and brood with his chin in his hand, and smile, as + though remembering pleasant things. + </p> + <p> + One day at last, in the full tide of summer, a man, haggard and troubled, + came to Felion’s house, and knocked, and, getting no reply, waited; and + whenever he looked down at the little city he wrung his hands, and more + than once he put them up to his face and shuddered, and again looked for + Felion. Just when the dusk was rolling down, Felion came back, and, seeing + the man, would have passed him without a word, but that the man stopped + with an eager, sorrowful gesture and said: “The plague has come upon us + again, and the people, remembering how you healed them long ago, beg you + to come.” + </p> + <p> + At that Felion leaned his fishing-rod against the door and answered: + </p> + <p> + “What people?” + </p> + <p> + The other then replied: “The people of the little city below, Felion.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know your name,” was the reply; “I know naught of you or of your + city.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you mad?” cried the man. “Do you forget the little city down there? + Have you no heart?” + </p> + <p> + A strange smile passed over Felion’s face, and he answered: “When one + forgets, why should the other remember?” + </p> + <p> + He turned and went into the house and shut the door, and though the man + knocked, the door was no opened, and he went back angry and miserable; and + the people could not believe that Felion would no come to help them, as he + had done all his life. A dawn three others came, and they found Felion + looking out towards the east, his lips moving as though he prayed. Yet it + was no prayer, only a call, that was on his lips. They felt a sort of awe + in his presence, for now he seemed as if he had lived more than a century, + so wise and old was the look of his face, so white his hair, so set and + distant his dignity. They begged him to come, and, bringing his medicines, + save the people, for death was galloping through the town, knocking at + many doors. + </p> + <p> + “One came to heal you,” he answered—“the young man of the schools, + who wrote mystic letters after his name; it swings on a brass by his + door-where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “He is dead of the plague,” they replied, “and the other also that came + with him, who fled before the sickness, fell dead of it on the roadside, + going to the sea.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I go?” he replied, and he turned threateningly to his weapon, + as if in menace of their presence. + </p> + <p> + “You have no one to leave behind,” they answered eagerly, “and you are + old.” + </p> + <p> + “Liars,” he rejoined, “let the little city save itself!” and he wheeled + and went into his house, and they saw that they had erred in not + remembering his daughter, whose presence they had once prized. They saw + that they had angered him beyond soothing; and they went back in grief, + for two of them had lost dear relatives by the fell sickness. When they + told what had happened, the people said: “We will send the women; he will + listen to them—he had a daughter.” + </p> + <p> + That afternoon, when all the hills lay still and dead, and nowhere did + bird or breeze stir, the women came, and they found him seated with his + back turned to the town. He was looking into the deep woods, into the hot + shadows of the trees. + </p> + <p> + “We have come to bring you to the little city,” they said to him; “the + sick grow in numbers every hour.” + </p> + <p> + “It is safe in the hills,” he answered, not looking at them. “Why do the + people stay in the valley?” + </p> + <p> + “Every man has a friend, or a wife, or a child, ill or dying, and every + woman has a husband, or a child, or a friend, or a brother. Cowards have + fled, and many of them have fallen by the way.” + </p> + <p> + “Last summer I lay sick here many weeks and none came near me—why + should I go to the little city?” he demanded austerely. “Four times I + saved it, and of all that I saved none came to give me water to drink, or + food to eat, and I lay burning with fever, and thirsty and hungry—God + of heaven, how thirsty!” + </p> + <p> + “We did not know,” they answered humbly; “you came to us so seldom, we had + forgotten; we were fools.” + </p> + <p> + “I came and went fifty years,” he answered bitterly, “and I have forgotten + how to rid the little city of the plague!” + </p> + <p> + At that one of the women, mad with anger, made as if to catch him by his + beard, but she forbore, and said: “Liar—the men shall hang you to + your own rooftree!” + </p> + <p> + His eyes had a wild light, but he waved his hand quietly, and answered: + “Begone, and learn how great a sin is ingratitude.” + </p> + <p> + He turned away from them gloomily, and would have entered his home, but + one of the women, who was young, plucked his sleeve, and said sorrowfully: + “I loved Carille, your daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “And forgot her and her father. I am three-score and ten years, and she + has been gone fifteen, and for the first time I see your face,” was his + scornful reply. + </p> + <p> + She was tempted to say: “I was ever bearing children and nursing them, and + the hills were hard to climb, and my husband would not go;” but she saw + how dark his look was, and she hid her face in her hands and turned away + to follow after the others. She had five little children, and her heart + was anxious for them and her eyes full of tears. + </p> + <p> + Anger and remorse seized on the little city, and there were those who + would have killed Felion, but others saw that the old man had been sorely + wronged in the past, and these said: “Wait until the morrow and we will + devise something.” + </p> + <p> + That night a mule-train crept slowly down the mountain side and entered + the little city, for no one who came with them knew of the plague. The + caravan had come from the east across the great plains, and not from the + west, which was the travelled highway to the sea. Among them was a woman + who already was ill of a fever, and knew naught of what passed round her. + She had with her a beautiful child; and one of the women of the place + devised a thing. “This woman,” she said, “does not belong to the little + city, and he can have nothing against her; she is a stranger. Let one of + us take this beautiful lad to him, and he shall ask Felion to come and + save his mother.” + </p> + <p> + Every one approved the woman’s wisdom, and in the early morning she + herself, with another, took the child and went up the long hillside in the + heavy heat; and when they came near Felion’s house the women stayed + behind, and the child went forward, having been taught what to say to the + old man. + </p> + <p> + Felion sat just within his doorway, looking out into the sunlight which + fell upon the red and white walls of the little city, flanked by young + orchards, with great, oozy meadows beyond these, where cattle ate, + knee-deep in the lush grass and cool reed-beds. Along the riverside, far + up on the high banks, were the tall couches of dead Indians, set on poles, + their useless weapons laid along the deerskin pall. Down the hurrying + river there passed a raft, bearing a black flag on a pole, and on it were + women and children who were being taken down to the sea from the doomed + city. These were they who had lost fathers and brothers; and now were + going out alone with the shadow of the plague over them, for there was + none to say them nay. The tall oarsmen bent to their task, and Felion felt + his blood beat faster when he saw the huge oars swing high, then drop and + bend in the water, as the raft swung straight in its course and passed on + safe through the narrow slide into the white rapids below, which licked + the long timbers as with white tongues, and tossed spray upon the sad + voyagers. Felion remembered the day when he left his own child behind and + sprang from the bridge to the raft whereon were the children of the little + city, and saved them. + </p> + <p> + And when he tried to be angry now, the thought of the children as they + watched him, with his broken leg striving against their peril, softened + his heart. He shook his head, for suddenly there came to him the memory of + a time, three-score years before, when he and the foundryman’s daughter + had gone hunting flag-flowers by the little trout stream; of the songs + they sang together at the festivals, she in her sweet Quaker garb and + demure Quaker beauty, he lithe, alert, and full of the joy of life and + loving. As he sat so, thinking, he wondered where she was, and why he + should be thinking of her now, facing the dreary sorrow of this pestilence + and his own anger and vengeance. He nodded softly to the waving trees far + down in the valley, for his thoughts had drifted on to his wife as he + first saw her. She was standing bare-armed among the grape-vines by a wall + of rock, the dew of rich life on her lip and forehead, her grey eyes + swimming with a soft light; and looking at her he had loved her at once, + as he had loved, on the instant, the little child that came to him later; + as he had loved the girl into which the child grew, till she left him and + came back no more. Why had he never gone in search of her? + </p> + <p> + He got to his feet involuntarily and stepped towards the door, looking + down into the valley. As his eyes rested on the little city his face grew + dark, but his eyes were troubled and presently grew bewildered, for out of + a green covert near there stepped a pretty boy, who came to him with + frank, unabashed face and a half-shy smile. + </p> + <p> + Felion did not speak at first, but stood looking, and presently the child + said: “I have come to fetch you.” + </p> + <p> + “To fetch me where, little man?” asked Felion, a light coming into his + face, his heart beating faster. + </p> + <p> + “To my mother. She is sick.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is your mother?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s in the village down there,” answered the boy, pointing. + </p> + <p> + In spite of himself, Felion smiled in a sour sort of way, for the boy had + called the place a village, and he relished the unconscious irony. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter with her?” asked Felion, beckoning the lad inside. + </p> + <p> + The lad came and stood in the doorway, gazing round curiously, while the + old man sat down and looked at him, moved, he knew not why. + </p> + <p> + The bright steel of Felion’s axe, standing in the corner, caught the lad’s + eye and held it. Felion saw, and said: “What are you thinking of?” + </p> + <p> + The lad answered: “Of the axe. When I’m bigger I will cut down trees and + build a house, a bridge, and a city. Aren’t you coming quick to help my + mother? She will die if you don’t come.” + </p> + <p> + Felion did not answer, and from the trees without two women watched him + anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Why should I come?” asked Felion curiously. “Because she’s sick, and + she’s my mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I do it because she’s your mother?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” the lad answered, and his brow knitted in the attempt to + think it out, “but I like you.” He came and stood beside the old man and + looked into his face with a pleasant confidence. “If your mother was sick, + and I could heal her, I would—I know I would—I wouldn’t be + afraid to go down into the village.” + </p> + <p> + Here were rebuke, love, and impeachment, all in one, and the old man half + started from his seat. + </p> + <p> + “Did you think I was afraid?” he asked of the boy, as simply as might a + child of a child, so near are children and wise men in their thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “I knew if you didn’t it’d be because you were angry or were afraid, and + you didn’t look angry.” + </p> + <p> + “How does one look when one is angry?” + </p> + <p> + “Like my father.” + </p> + <p> + “And how does your father look?” + </p> + <p> + “My father’s dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he die of the plague?” asked Felion, laying his hand on the lad’s + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the lad quickly, and shut his lips tight. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you tell me?” asked Felion, with a strange inquisitiveness. + </p> + <p> + “No. Mother’ll tell you, but I won’t.” The lad’s eyes filled with tears. + </p> + <p> + “Poor boy—poor boy!” said Felion, and his hand tightened on the + small shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be sorry for me; be sorry for mother, please,” said the boy, and he + laid a hand on the old man’s knee, and that touch went to a heart long + closed against the little city below; and Felion rose and said: “I will go + with you to your mother.” + </p> + <p> + Then he went into another room, and the boy came near the axe and ran his + fingers along the bright steel, and fondled the handle, as does a hunter + the tried weapon which has been his through many seasons. When the old man + came back he said to the boy: “Why do you look at the axe?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” was the answer; “maybe because my mother used to sing a + song about the wood-cutters.” Without a word, and thinking much, he + stepped out into the path leading to the little city, the lad holding one + hand. Years afterwards men spoke with a sort of awe or reverence of seeing + the beautiful stranger lad leading old Felion into the plague-stricken + place, and how, as they passed, women threw themselves at Felion’s feet, + begging him to save their loved ones. And a drunkard cast his arm round + the old man’s shoulder and sputtered foolish pleadings in his ear; but + Felion only waved them back gently, and said: “By-and-by, by-and-by—God + help us all!” + </p> + <p> + Now a fevered hand snatched at him from a doorway, moanings came from + everywhere, and more than once he almost stumbled over a dead body; others + he saw being carried away to the graveyard for hasty burial. Few were the + mourners that followed, and the faces of those who watched the processions + go by were set and drawn. The sunlight and the green trees seemed an + insult to the dead. + </p> + <p> + They passed into the house where the sick woman lay, and some met him at + the door with faces of joy and meaning; for now they knew the woman and + would have spoken to him of her; but he waved them off, and put his + fingers upon his lips and went where a fire burned in a kitchen, and + brewed his medicines. And the child entered the room where his mother lay, + and presently he came to the kitchen and said: “She is asleep—my + mother.” + </p> + <p> + The old man looked down on him a moment steadily, and a look of + bewilderment came into his face. But he turned away again to the simmering + pots. The boy went to the window and, leaning upon the sill, began to hum + softly a sort of chant, while he watched a lizard running hither and + thither in the sun. As he hummed, the old man listened, and presently, + with his medicines in his hands and a half-startled look, he came over to + the lad. + </p> + <p> + “What are you humming?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The lad answered: “A song of the wood-cutters.” + </p> + <p> + “Sing it again,” said Felion. + </p> + <p> + The lad began to sing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here shall I build me my cedar house, + A city with gates, a road to the sea— + For I am the lord of the Earth! Hew! Hew!” + </pre> + <p> + The old man stopped him. “What is your name?” + </p> + <p> + “My name is Felion,” answered the lad; and he put his face close to the + jug that held the steaming tinctures: but the old man caught the little + chin in his huge hand and bent back the head, looking long into the lad’s + eyes. At last he caught little Felion’s hand and hurried into the other + room, where the woman lay in a stupor. The old man came quickly to her and + looked into her face. Seeing, he gave a broken cry and said: + </p> + <p> + “Carille, my daughter! Carille!” + </p> + <p> + He drew her to his breast, and as he did so he groaned aloud, for he knew + that inevitable Death was waiting for her at the door. He straightened + himself up, clasped the child to his breast, and said: “I, too, am Felion, + my little son.” + </p> + <p> + And then he set about to defeat that dark, hovering Figure at the door. + </p> + <p> + For three long hours he sat beside her, giving her little by little his + potent medicines; and now and again he stopped his mouth with his hand, + lest he should cry out; and his eyes never wavered from her face, not even + to the boy, who lay asleep in the corner. + </p> + <p> + At last his look relaxed its vigilance, for a dewy look passed over the + woman’s face, and she opened her eyes and saw him, and gave a little cry + of “Father!” and was straightway lost in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “I have come home to die,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, to live!” he answered firmly. “Why did you not send me word all + these long years?” + </p> + <p> + “My husband was in shame, in prison, and I in sorrow,” she answered sadly. + “I could not.” + </p> + <p> + “He did evil? He is—” he paused. + </p> + <p> + “He is dead,” she said. “It is better so.” Her eyes wandered round the + room restlessly, and then fixed upon the sleeping child, and a smile + passed over her face. She pointed to the lad. + </p> + <p> + The old man nodded. “He brought me here,” he said gently. Then he got to + his feet. “You must sleep now,” he added, and he gave her a cordial. “I + must go forth and save the sick.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a plague?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He nodded. “They said you would not come to save them,” she continued + reproachfully. “You came to me because I was your Carille, only for that?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” he answered; “I knew not who you were. I came to save a mother + to her child.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God!” she said. + </p> + <p> + With a happy smile she hid her face in the pillow. At last, leaving her + and the child asleep, old Felion went forth into the little city, and the + people flocked to him, and for many days he came and went ceaselessly. + </p> + <p> + And once more he saved the city, and the people blessed him: and the years + go on. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY + </h2> + <p> + He lay where he could see her working at the forge. As she worked she + sang: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “When God was making the world, + (Swift is the wind and white is the fire) + The feet of his people danced the stars; + There was laughter and swinging bells, + + And clanging iron and breaking breath, + The hammers of heaven making the hills, + The vales on the anvil of God. + (Wild is the fire and low is the wind.)” + </pre> + <p> + His eyes were shining, and his face had a pale radiance from the reflected + light, though he lay in the shadow where he could watch her, while she + could not see him. Now her hand was upon the bellows, and the low, white + fire seethed hungrily up, and set its teeth upon the iron she held; now it + turned the iron about upon the anvil, and the sparks showered about her + very softly and strangely. There was a cheerful gravity in her motions, a + high, fine look in her face. + </p> + <p> + They two lived alone in the solitudes of Megalon Valley. + </p> + <p> + It was night now, and the pleasant gloom of the valley was not broken by + any sound save the hum of the stream near by, and the song, and the + ringing anvil. But into the workshop came the moist, fragrant smell of the + acacia and the maple, and a long brown lizard stretched its neck sleepily + across the threshold of the door opening into the valley. + </p> + <p> + The song went on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “When God had finished the world + (Bright was the fire and sweet was the wind) + Up from the valleys came song, + To answer the morning stars, + And the hand of man on the anvil rang; + His breath was big in his breast, his life + Beat strong on the walls of the world. + (Glad is the wind and tall is the fire.)” + </pre> + <p> + He put his hands to his eyes, and took them away again, as though to make + sure that the song was not a dream. Wonder grew upon his thin, bearded + face, he ran his fingers through his thick hair in a dazed way. Then he + lay and looked, and a rich warm flush crept over his cheek, and stayed + there. + </p> + <p> + There was a great gap in his memory. + </p> + <p> + The evening wore on. Once or twice the woman turned towards the room where + the man lay, and listened—she could not see his face from where she + stood. At such times he lay still, though his heart beat quickly, like + that of an expectant child. His lips opened to speak, but still they + remained silent. As yet he was like a returned traveller who does not + quickly recognise old familiar things, and who is struggling with vague + suggestions and forgotten events. As time went on, the woman turned + towards the doorway oftener, and shifted her position so that she faced + it, and the sparks, flying up, lighted her face with a wonderful irregular + brightness. + </p> + <p> + “Samantha,” he said at last, and his voice sounded so strange to him that + the word quivered timidly towards her. + </p> + <p> + She paused upon a stroke, and some new note in his voice sent so sudden a + thrill to her heart that she caught her breath with a painful kind of joy. + The hammer dropped upon the anvil, and, in a moment, she stood in the + doorway of his room. + </p> + <p> + “Francis, Francis,” she responded in a low whisper. He started up from his + couch of skins. “Samantha, my wife!” he cried, in a strong proud voice. + </p> + <p> + She dropped beside him and caught his head, like a mother, to her + shoulder, and set her warm lips on his forehead and hair with a kind of + hunger; and then he drew her face down and kissed her on the lips. Tears + hung at her eyes, and presently dropped on her cheeks, a sob shook her, + and then she was still, her hands grasping his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Have I been ill?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “You have been very ill, Francis.” + </p> + <p> + “Has it been long?” + </p> + <p> + Her fingers passed tenderly through his grizzled hair. “Too long, too + long, my husband,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “Is it summer now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Francis, it is summer.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it in the spring, Samantha?—Yes, I think it was in the spring,” + he added, musing. + </p> + <p> + “It was in a spring.” + </p> + <p> + “There was snow still on the mountain-top, the river was running high, and + wild fowl were gathered on the island in the lake—yes, I remember, I + think.” + </p> + <p> + “And the men were working at the mine,” she whispered, her voice shaking a + little, and her eyes eagerly questioning his face. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the mine—it was the mine, Samantha!” he said abruptly, his eyes + flashing up. “I was working at the forge to make a great bolt for the + machinery, and some one forgot and set the engine in motion. I ran out; + but it was too late... and then...” + </p> + <p> + “And then you tried to save them, Francis, and you were hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “What month is this, my wife?” + </p> + <p> + “It is December.” + </p> + <p> + “And that was in October?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in October.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been ill since? What happened?” + </p> + <p> + “Many were killed, Francis, and you and I came away.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are we now? I do not know the place.” + </p> + <p> + “This is Megalon Valley. You and I live alone here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you bring me here?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not bring you, Francis; you wished me to come. One day you said to + me: ‘There is a place in Megalon Valley where, long ago, an old man lived, + who had become a stranger among men—a place where the blackbird + stays, and the wolf-dog troops and hides, and the damson grows as thick as + blossoms on the acacia. We will go there.’ And I came with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not remember. What of the mine? Was I a coward and left the mine? + There was no one understood the ways of the wheel, and rod, and steam, + save me. + </p> + <p> + “The mine is closed, Francis,” she answered gently. “You were no coward, + but—but you had strange fancies. + </p> + <p> + “When did the mine close?” he said, with a kind of sorrow; “I put hard + work and good years into it.” At that moment, when her face drew close to + his, the vision of her as she stood at the anvil came to him with a new + impression, and he said again in a half-frightened way: “When did it + close, Samantha?” + </p> + <p> + “The mine was closed—twelve years ago, my own dear husband.” + </p> + <p> + He got to his feet and clasped her to his breast. A strength came to him + which had eluded him twelve years, and she, womanlike, delighted in that + strength, and, with a great gladness, changed eyes and hands with him; + keeping her soul still her own, brooding and lofty, as is the soul of + every true woman, though, like this one, she labours at a forge, and in a + far, untenanted country is faithful friend, ceaseless apothecary to a + comrade with a disordered mind; living on savage meats, clothing herself + and the other in skins, and, with a divine persistence, keeping a cheerful + heart, certain that the intelligence which was frightened from its home + would come back one day. It should be hers to watch for the great moment, + and give the wanderer loving welcome, lest it should hurry madly away + again into the desert, never to return. + </p> + <p> + She had her reward, yet she wept. She had carried herself before him with + the bright ways of an unvexed girl these twelve years past; she had earned + the salt of her tears. He was dazed still, but, the doublet of his mind no + longer unbraced, he understood what she had been to him, and how she had + tended him in absolute loneliness, her companions the wild things of the + valley—these and God. + </p> + <p> + He drew her into the workshop, and put his hand upon the bellows and + churned them, so that the fire roared joyously up, and the place was red + with the light. In this light he turned her to him and looked at her. The + look was as that of one who had come back from the dead—that naked, + profound, unconditional gaze which is as deep and honest as the primeval + sense. His eyes fell upon her rich, firm, stately body; it lingered for a + moment on the brown fulness of her hair; then her look was gathered to + his, and they fell into each other’s arms. + </p> + <p> + For long they sat in the solemn silence of their joy, and so awed were + they by the thing which had come to them that they felt no surprise when a + wolf-dog crawled over the lizard on the threshold, and stole along the + wall with shining, bloody eyes to an inner room, and stayed there munching + meat to surfeit and drowsiness, and at last crept out and lay beside the + forge in a thick sleep. These two had lived so much with the untamed + things of nature, the bellows and the fire had been so long there, and the + clang of the anvil was so familiar, that there was a kinship among them, + man and beast, with the woman as ruler. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, Samantha,” he said at last, “what has happened during these + twelve years, all from the first. Keep nothing back. I am strong now.” He + looked around the workshop, then, suddenly, at her, with a strange pain, + and they both turned their heads away for an instant, for the same thought + was on them. Then, presently, she spoke, and answered his shy, sorrowful + thought before all else. “The child is gone,” she softly said. + </p> + <p> + He sat still, but a sob was in his throat. He looked at her with a kind of + fear. He wondered if his madness had cost the life of the child. She + understood. “Did I ever see the child?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I sometimes thought that through the babe you would be yourself + again. When you were near her you never ceased to look at her and fondle + her, as I thought very timidly; and you would start sometimes and gaze at + me with the old wise look hovering at your eyes. But the look did not + stay. The child was fond of you, but she faded and pined, and one day as + you nursed her you came to me and said: ‘See, beloved, the little one will + not wake. She pulled at my beard and said, “Daddy,” and fell asleep.’ And + I took her from your arms.... There is a chestnut tree near the door of + our cottage at the mine. One night you and I buried her there; but you do + not remember her, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “My child, my child!” he said, looking out into the night; and he lifted + up his arms and looked at them. “I held her here, and still I never held + her; I fondled her, and yet I never fondled her; I buried her, yet—to + me—she never was born.” + </p> + <p> + “You have been far away, Francis; you have come back home. I waited, and + prayed, and worked with you, and was patient.... It is very strange,” she + continued. “In all these twelve years you cannot remember our past, though + you remembered about this place—the one thing, as if God had made it + so—and now you cannot remember those twelve years.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me now of the twelve years,” he urged. + </p> + <p> + “It was the same from day to day. When we came from the mountain, we + brought with us the implements of the forge upon a horse. Now and again as + we travelled we cut our way through the heavy woods. You were changed for + the better then; a dreadful trouble seemed to have gone from your face. + There was a strong kind of peace in the valley, and there were so many + birds and animals, and the smell of the trees was so fine, that we were + not lonely, neither you nor I.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, thinking, her eyes looking out to where the Evening Star was + sailing slowly out of the wooded horizon, his look on her. In the pause + the wolf-dog raised its big, sleepy eyes at them, then plunged its head + into its paws, its wildness undisturbed by their presence. + </p> + <p> + Presently the wife continued: “At last we reached here, and here we have + lived, where no human being, save one, has ever been. We put up the forge, + and in a little hill not far away we found coal for it. The days went on. + It was always summer, though there came at times a sharp frost, and + covered the ground with a coverlet of white. But the birds were always + with us, and the beasts were our friends. I learned to love even the + shrill cry of the reed hens, and the soft tap-tap of the wood-pecker is + the sweetest music to my ear after the song of the anvil. How often have + you and I stood here at the anvil, the fire heating the iron, and our + hammers falling constantly! Oh, Francis, I knew that only here with God + and His dumb creatures, and His wonderful healing world, all sun, and + wind, and flowers, and blossoming trees, working as you used to work, as + the first of men worked, would the sane wandering soul return to you. The + thought was in you, too, for you led me here, and have been patient also + in the awful exile of your mind.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been as a child, and not as a man,” he said gravely. “Shall I ever + again be a man, as I once was, Samantha?” + </p> + <p> + “You cannot see yourself,” she said. “A week ago you fell ill, and since + then you have been pale and worn; but your body has been, and is, that of + a great strong man. In the morning I will take you to a spring in the + hills, and you shall see yourself, beloved.” + </p> + <p> + He stood up, stretched himself, went to the door, and looked out into the + valley flooded with moonlight. He drew in a great draught of air, and + said: “The world—the great, wonderful world, where men live, and + love work, and do strong things!”—he paused, and turned with a + trouble in his face. “My wife,” he said, “you have lived with a dead man + twelve years, and I have lost twelve years in the world. I had a great + thought once—an invention—but now—” he hung his head + bitterly. She came to him, and her hands slid up along his breast to his + shoulders, and rested there; and she said, with a glad smile: “Francis, + you have lost nothing. The thing—the invention—was all but + finished when you fell ill a week ago. We have worked at it for these + twelve years; through it, I think, you have been brought back to me. Come, + there is a little work yet to, do upon it;” and she drew him to where a + machine of iron lay in the corner. With a great cry he fell upon his knees + beside it, and fondled it. + </p> + <p> + Then, presently, he rose, and caught his wife to his breast. + </p> + <p> + Together, a moment later, they stood beside the anvil. The wolf-dog fled + out into the night from the shower of sparks, as, in the red light, the + two sang to the clanging of the hammers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “When God was making the world + (Swift is the wind and white is the fire)” + </pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + Counsel of the overwise to go jolting through the soul + Love knows not distance; it hath no continent + When a child is born the mother also is born again +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Parables Of A Province, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARABLES OF A PROVINCE *** + +***** This file should be named 6242-h.htm or 6242-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/4/6242/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Parables Of A Province + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Last Updated: March 13, 2009 +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6242] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARABLES OF A PROVINCE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +PARABLES OF A PROVINCE + +By Gilbert Parker + + + + THE GOLDEN PIPES + THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE + BY THAT PLACE CALLED PERADVENTURE + THE SINGING OF THE BEES + THE WHITE OMEN + THE SOJOURNERS + THE TENT OF THE PURPLE MAT + THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY + THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY + + + + +THE GOLDEN PIPES + +They hung all bronzed and shining, on the side of Margath Mountain--the +tall and perfect pipes of the organ which was played by some son of God +when the world was young. At least Hepnon the cripple said this was so, +when he was but a child, and when he got older he said that even now +a golden music came from the pipes at sunrise and sunset. And no one +laughed at Hepnon, for you could not look into the dark warm eyes, +dilating with his fancies, or see the transparent temper of his face, +the look of the dreamer over all, without believing him, and reproving +your own judgment. You felt that he had travelled ways you could never +travel, that he had had dreams beyond you, that his fanciful spirit had +had adventures you would give years of your dull life to know. + +And yet he was not made only as women are made, fragile and trembling +in his nerves. For he was strong of arm, and there was no place in the +hills to be climbed by venturesome man, which he could not climb with +crutch and shrivelled leg. Also, he was a gallant horseman, riding with +his knees and one foot in stirrup, his crutch slung behind him. It +may be that was why rough men listened to his fancies about the Golden +Pipes. Indeed they would go out at sunrise and look across to where the +pipes hung, taking the rosy glory of the morning, and steal away +alone at sunset, and in some lonely spot lean out towards the flaming +instrument to hear if any music rose from them. The legend that one of +the Mighty Men of the Kimash Hills came here to play, with invisible +hands, the music of the first years of the world, became a truth, though +a truth that none could prove. And by-and-by, no man ever travelled the +valley without taking off his hat as he passed the Golden Pipes--so had +a cripple with his whimsies worked upon the land. + +Then, too, perhaps his music had to do with it. As a child he had only a +poor concertina, but by it he drew the traveller and the mountaineer +and the worker in the valley to him like a magnet. Some touch of the +mysterious, some sweet fantastical melody in all he played, charmed +them, even when he gave them old familiar airs. From the concertina he +passed to the violin, and his skill and mastery over his followers +grew; and then there came a notable day when up over a thousand miles of +country a melodeon was brought him. Then a wanderer, a minstrel outcast +from a far country, taking refuge in those hills, taught him, and there +was one long year of loving labour together, and merry whisperings +between the two, and secret drawings, and worship of the Golden Pipes; +and then the minstrel died, and left Hepnon alone. + +And now they said that Hepnon tried to coax out of the old melodeon the +music of the Golden Pipes. But a look of sorrow grew upon his face, and +stayed for many months. Then there came a change, and he went into the +woods, and began working there in the perfect summer weather; and the +tale went abroad that he was building an organ, so that he might play +for all who came, the music he heard on the Golden Pipes--for they had +ravished his ear since childhood, and now he must know the wonderful +melodies all by heart, they said. + +With consummate patience Hepnon dried the wood and fashioned it into +long tuneful tubes, beating out soft metal got from the forge in the +valley to case the lips of them, tanning the leather for the bellows, +stretching it, and exposing all his work to the sun of early morning, +which gave every fibre and valve a rich sweetness, like a sound fruit of +autumn. People also said that he set all the pieces out at sunrise and +sunset that the tone of the Golden Pipes might pass into them, so that +when the organ was built, each part should be saturated with such melody +as it had drawn in, according to its temper and its fibre. + +So the building of the organ went on, and a year passed, and then +another, and it was summer again; and soon Hepnon began to build +also--while yet it was sweet weather--a home for his organ, a tall nest +of cedar added to his father's house. And in it every piece of wood, and +every board had been made ready by his own hands, and set in the sun and +dried slowly to a healthy soundness; and he used no nails of metal, but +wooden pins of the iron-wood or hickory tree, and it was all polished, +and there was no paint or varnish anywhere; and when you spoke in this +nest your voice sounded pure and strong. + +At last the time came when, piece by piece, the organ was set up in its +home; and as the days and weeks went by, and autumn drew to winter, and +the music of the Golden Pipes stole down the flumes of snow to their +ardent lover, and spring came with its sap, and small purple blossoms, +and yellow apples of mandrake, and summer stole on luxurious and dry; +the face of Hepnon became thinner and thinner, a strange deep light +shone in his eyes, and all his person seemed to exhale a kind of glow. +He ceased to ride, to climb, to lift weights with his strong arms, as he +had--poor cripple--been once so proud to do. A delicacy came upon him, +and more and more he withdrew himself to his organ, and to those lofty +and lonely places where he could see--and hear--the Golden Pipes boom +softly over the valley. + +At last it all was done, even to the fine-carved stool of cedar whereon +he should sit when he played his organ. Never yet had he done more than +sound each note as he made it, trying it, softening it by tender devices +with the wood; but now the hour was come when he should gather down the +soul of the Golden Pipes to his fingers, and give to the ears of +the world the song of the morning stars, the music of Jubal and his +comrades, the affluent melody to which the sons of men, in the first +days, paced the world in time with the thoughts of God. For days he +lived alone in the cedar-house--and who may know what he was doing +dreaming, listening, or praying? Then the word went through the valley +and the hills, that one evening he would play for all who came; and that +day was "Toussaint," or the Feast of All Souls. + +So they came both old and young, and they did not enter the house, +but waited outside, upon the mossy rocks, or sat among the trees, and +watched the heavy sun roll down and the Golden Pipes flame in the light +of evening. Far beneath in the valley the water ran lightly on, +but there came no sound from it, none from anywhere; only a general +pervasive murmur quieting to the heart. + +Now they heard a note come from the organ--a soft low sound that seemed +to rise out of the good earth and mingle with the vibrant air, the +song of birds, the whisper of trees, and the murmuring water. Then +came another, and another note, then chords, and chords upon these, +and by-and-by, rolling tides of melody, until, as it seemed to the +listeners, the air ached with the incomparable song; and men and women +wept, and children hid their heads in the laps of their mothers, and +young men and maidens dreamed dreams never to be forgotten. For one +short hour the music went on, then twilight came. Presently the sounds +grew fainter, and exquisitely painful, and now a low sob seemed to pass +through all the heart of the organ, and then silence fell, and in the +sacred pause, Hepnon came out among them all, pale and desolate. He +looked at them a minute most sadly, and then lifting up his arms towards +the Golden Pipes, now hidden in the dusk, he cried low and brokenly: + +"O my God, give me back my dream!" + +Then his crutch seemed to give way beneath him, and he sank upon the +ground, faint and gasping. + +They raised him up, and women and men whispered in his ear + +"Ah, the beautiful, beautiful music, Hepnon!" But he only said: "O my +God, O my God, give me back my dream!" When he had said it thrice, he +turned his face to where his organ was in the cedar-house, and then his +eyes closed, and he fell asleep: and they could not wake him. But at +sunrise the next morning a shiver passed through him, and then a cold +quiet stole over him, and Hepnon and the music of the Golden Pipes +departed from the Voshti Hills, and came again no more. + + + + +THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE + +"Height unto height answereth knowledge." + +His was the first watch, the farthest fire, for Shaknon Hill towered +above the great gulf, and looked back also over thirty leagues of +country towards the great city. There came a time again when all the +land was threatened. From sovereign lands far off, two fleets were +sailing hard to reach the wide basin before the walled city, the one to +save, the other to destroy. If Tinoir, the Guardian of the Fire, should +sight the destroying fleet, he must light two fires on Shaknon Hill, +and then, at the edge of the wide basin, in a treacherous channel, the +people would send out fire-rafts to burn the ships of the foe. Five +times in the past had Tinoir been the Guardian of the Fire, and five +times had the people praised him; but praise and his scanty wage were +all he got. + +The hut in which he lived with his wife on another hill, ten miles from +Shaknon, had but two rooms, and their little farm and the garden gave +them only enough to live--no more. Elsewhere there was good land in +abundance, but it had been said years ago to Tinoir by the great men, +that he should live not far from Shaknon, so that in times of peril he +might guard the fire and be sentinel for all the people. Perhaps Tinoir +was too dull to see that he was giving all and getting naught; that +while he waited and watched he was always poor, and also was getting +old. There was no house or home within fifty miles of them, and only +now and then some wandering Indians lifted the latch, and drew in beside +their hearth, or a good priest with a soul of love for others, came +and said Mass in the room where a little Calvary had been put up. Two +children had come and gone, and Tinoir and Dalice had dug their graves +and put them in a warm nest of maple leaves, and afterwards lived upon +the memories of them. But after these two, children came no more; and +Tinoir and Dalice grew closer and closer to each other, coming to look +alike in face, as they had long been alike in mind and feeling. None +ever lived nearer to nature than they, and wild things grew to be their +friends; so that you might see Dalice at her door tossing crumbs with +one hand to birds, and with the other bits of meat to foxes, martens, +and wild dogs, which came and went unharmed by them. Tinoir shot no +wild animals for profit--only for food and for skins and furs to wear. +Because of this he was laughed at by all who knew, save the priest of +St. Sulpice, who, on Easter Day, when the little man came yearly to Mass +over two hundred miles of country, praised him to his people, and made +much of him, though Tinoir was not vain enough to see it. + +When word came down the river, and up over the hills to Tinoir, that war +was come and that he must go to watch for the hostile fleet and for the +friendly fleet as well, he made no murmur, though it was the time +of harvest, and Dalice had had a sickness from which she was not yet +recovered. + +"Go, my Tinoir," said Dalice, with a little smile, "and I will reap the +grain. If your eyes are sharp you shall see my bright sickle moving in +the sun." + +"There is the churning of the milk too, Dalice," answered Tinoir; "you +are not strong, and sometimes the butter comes slow; and there's the +milking also." + +"Strength is coming to me fast, Tinoir," she said, and drew herself up; +but her dress lay almost flat on her bosom. Tinoir took her arm and felt +it above the elbow. + +"It is like the muscle of a little child," he said. + +"But I will drink those bottles of red wine the Governor sent the last +time you watched the fire on Shaknon," she said, brightening up, and +trying to cheer him. He nodded, for he saw what she was trying to do, +and said: "Also a little of the gentian and orange root three times a +day-eh, Dalice?" + +After arranging for certain signs, by little fires, which they were to +light upon the hills and so speak with each other, they said, "Good +day, Dalice," and "Good day, Tinoir," drank a glass of the red wine, +and added: "Thank the good God;" then Tinoir wiped his mouth with his +sleeve, and went away, leaving Dalice with a broken glass at her feet, +and a look in her eyes which it was well that Tinoir did not see. + +But as he went he was thinking how, the night before, Dalice had lain +with her arm round his neck hour after hour as she slept, as she did +before they ever had a child; and that even in her sleep, she kissed him +as she used to kiss him before he brought her away from the parish of +Ste. Genevieve to be his wife. And the more he thought about it the +happier he became, and more than once he stopped and shook his head in +pleased retrospection. And Dalice thought of it too as she hung over the +churn, her face drawn and tired and shining with sweat; and she shook +her head, and tears came into her eyes, for she saw further into things +than Tinoir. And once as she passed his coat on the wall, she rubbed +it softly with her hand, as she might his curly head when he lay beside +her. + +From Shaknon Tinoir watched; but of course he could never see her bright +sickle shining, and he could not know whether her dress still hung +loose upon her breast, or whether the flesh of her arms was still like a +child's. If all was well with Dalice a little fire should be lighted at +the house door just at the going down of the sun, and it should be at +once put out. If she was ill, a fire should be lit and then put out two +hours after sundown. If she should be ill beyond any help, this fire +should burn on till it went out. + +Day after day Tinoir, as he watched for the coming fleet, saw the fire +lit at sundown, and then put out. But one night the fire did not come +till two hours after sundown, and it was put out at once. He fretted +much, and he prayed that Dalice might be better, and he kept to his +post, looking for the fleet of the foe. Evening after evening was this +other fire lighted and then put out at once; and a great longing came to +him to leave this guarding of the fire, and go to her--"For half a day," +he said--"just for half a day!" But in that half day the fleet might +pass, and then it would be said that Tinoir had betrayed his country. At +last sleep left him, and he fought a demon night and day; and always he +remembered Dalice's arm about his neck, and her kisses that last night +they were together. Twice he started away from his post to go to her, +but before he had gone a hundred paces he came back. + +At last one afternoon he saw ships, not far off, rounding the great cape +in the gulf, and after a time, at sunset, he knew by their shape it was +the fleet of the foe; and so he lighted his great fires, and they were +answered leagues away towards the city by another beacon. + +Two hours after sunset of this day the fire in front of Tinoir's home +was lighted, and was not put out, and Tinoir sat and watched it till +it died away. So he lay in the light of his own great war-fire till +morning, for he could not travel at night, and then, his duty over, he +went back to his home. He found Dalice lying beside the ashes of her +fire, past hearing all he said in her ear, unheeding the kiss he set +upon her lips. + +Two nights afterwards, coming back from laying her beside her children, +he saw a great light in the sky towards the city, as of a huge fire. +When the courier came to him bearing the Governor's message and the +praise of the people, and told of the enemy's fleet destroyed by the +fire-rafts, he stared at the man, then turned his head to a place where +a pine cross showed against the green grass, and said: + +"Dalice--my wife--is dead." + +"You have saved your country, Tinoir," answered the courier kindly. + +"I have lost Dalice!" he said, and fondled the rosary Dalice used to +carry when she lived; and he would speak to the man no more. + + + + +BY THAT PLACE CALLED PERADVENTURE + +By that place called Peradventure in the Voshti Hills dwelt Golgothar +the strong man, who, it was said, could break an iron pot with a blow, +or pull a tall sapling from the ground. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would go and +conquer Nooni, the city of our foes." + +Because he had not the hundred men he did not go; and Nooni still sent +insults to the country of Golgothar, and none could travel safe between +the capitals. And Golgothar was sorry. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would build a +dyke to keep the floods back from the people crowded on the lowlands." + +Because he had not the hundred men, now and again the floods came down, +and swept the poor folk out to sea, or laid low their habitations. And +Golgothar pitied them. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would clear the +wild boar from the forests, that the children should not fear to play +among the trees." + +Because he had not the hundred men the graves of children multiplied, +and countless mothers sat by empty beds and mourned. And Golgothar put +his head between his knees in trouble for them. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would with great +stones mend the broken pier, and the bridge between the islands should +not fall." Because he had not the hundred men, at last the bridge gave +way, and a legion of the king's army were carried to the whirlpool, +where they fought in vain. And Golgothar made a feast of remembrance to +them, and tears dripped on his beard when he said: "Hail and Farewell!" + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would go against +the walls of chains our rebels built, and break them one by one." + +Because he had not the hundred men, the chain walls blocked the only +pass between the hills, and so cut in two the kingdom: and they who +pined for corn went wanting, and they who yearned for fish stayed +hungry. And Golgothar, brooding, said his heart bled for his country. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would go among +the thousand brigands of Mirnan, and bring again the beloved daughter of +our city." + +Because he had not the hundred men the beloved lady languished in her +prison, for the brigands asked as ransom the city of Talgone which they +hated. And Golgothar carried in his breast a stone image she had given +him, and for very grief let no man speak her name before him. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong--" said Golgothar, one day, standing +on a great point of land and looking down the valley. + +As he said it, he heard a laugh, and looking down he saw Sapphire, or +Laugh of the Hills, as she was called. A long staff of iron-wood was +in her hands, with which she jumped the dykes and streams and rocky +fissures; in her breast were yellow roses, and there was a tuft of +pretty feathers in her hair. She reached up and touched him on the +breast with her staff, then she laughed again, and sang a snatch of song +in mockery: + + "I am a king, + I have no crown, + I have no throne to sit in--" + +"Pull me up, boy," she said. She wound a leg about the staff, and, +taking hold, he drew her up as if she had been a feather. + +"If I had a hundred mouths I would kiss you for that," she said, still +mocking; "but having only one, I'll give it to the cat, and weep for +Golgothar." + +"Silly jade," he said, and turned towards his tent. + +As they passed a slippery and dangerous place, where was one strong +solitary tree, she suddenly threw a noose over him, drew it fast and +sprang far out over the precipice into the air. Even as she did so, he +jumped behind the tree, and clasped it, else on the slippery place he +would have gone over with her. The rope came taut, and presently he drew +her up again to safety, and while she laughed at him and mocked him, he +held her tight under his arm, and carried her to his lodge, where he let +her go. + +"Why did you do it, devil's madcap?" he asked. + +"Why didn't you wait for the hundred men so strong?" she laughed. + +"Why did you jump behind the tree? + + "'If I had a hundred men, heigho, + I would buy my corn for a penny a gill. + If I had a hundred men or so, + I would dig a grave for the maid of the hill, heigho!'" + +He did not answer her, but stirred the soup in the pot and tasted it, +and hung a great piece of meat over the fire. Then he sat down, and only +once did he show anger as she mocked him, and that was when she thrust +her hand into his breast, took out the little stone image, and said: + + "If a little stone god had a hundred hearts, + Would a little stone goddess trust in one?" + +Then she made as if she would throw it into the fire, but he caught her +hand and crushed it, so that she cried out for pain and anger, and said: + +"Brute of iron, go break the posts in the brigands' prison-house, but +leave a poor girl's wrist alone. If I had a hundred men--" she added, +mocking wildly again, and then, springing at him, put her two thumbs +at the corners of his eyes, and cried: "Stir a hand, and out they will +come--your eyes for my bones!" + +He did not stir till her fury was gone. Then he made her sit down and +eat with him, and afterwards she said softly to him, and without a +laugh: "Why should the people say, 'Golgothar is our shame, for he has +great strength, and yet he does nothing but throw great stones for sport +into the sea'?" + +He had the simple mind of a child, and he listened to her patiently, +and at last got up and began preparing for a journey, cleaning all his +weapons, and gathering them together. She understood him, and she +said, with a little laugh like music: "One strong man is better than +a hundred--a little key will open a great door easier than a hundred +hammers. What is the strength of a hundred bullocks without this?" she +added, tapping him on the forehead. + +Then they sat down and talked together quietly for a long time; and at +sunset she saw him start away upon great errands. + +Before two years had gone, Nooni, the city of their foes, was taken; the +chain wall of the rebels opened to the fish and corn of the poor; the +children wandered in the forest without fear of wild boars; the dyke was +built to save the people in the lowlands; and Golgothar carried to +the castle the King had given him the daughter of the city, freed from +Mirnan. + +"If Golgothar had a hundred wives--" said a voice to the strong man as +he entered the castle gates. Looking up he saw Sapphire. He stretched +out his hand to her in joy and friendship. + +"--I would not be one of them," she added, with a mocking laugh, as she +dropped from the wall, leaped the moat by the help of her staff, and +danced away laughing. There are those who say, however that tears fell +down her cheeks as she laughed. + + + + +THE SINGING OF THE BEES + +"Mother, didst thou not say thy prayers last night?" + +"Twice, my child." + +"Once before the little shrine, and once beside my bed--is it not so?" + +"It is so, my Fanchon. What hast thou in thy mind?" + +"Thou didst pray that the storm die in the hills, and the flood cease, +and that my father come before it was again the hour of prayer. It is +now the hour. Canst thou not hear the storm and the wash of the flood? +And my father does not come!" + +"Dear Fanchon, God is good." + +"When thou wast asleep I rose from my bed, and in the dark I kissed +the feet of--Him--on the little Calvary; and I did not speak, but in my +heart I called." + +"What didst thou call, my child?" + +"I called to my father: 'Come back-come back!'" + +"Thou shouldst have called to God, my Fanchon." + +"I loved my father, and I called to him." + +"Thou shouldst love God." + +"I knew my father first. If God loved thee, He would answer thy prayer. +Dost thou not hear the cracking of the cedar trees and the cry of the +wolves--they are afraid. All day and all night the rain and wind come +down, and the birds and wild fowl have no peace. I kissed--His feet, and +my throat was full of tears; but I called in my heart. Yet the storm and +the dark stay, and my father does not come." + +"Let us be patient, my Fanchon." + +"He went to guide the priest across the hills. Why does not God guide +him back?" + +"My Fanchon, let us be patient." + +"The priest was young, and my father has grey hair." + +"Wilt thou not be patient, my child?" + +"He filled the knapsack of the priest with food better than his own, +and--thou didst not see it--put money in his hand." + +"My own, the storm may pass." + +"He told the priest to think upon our home as a little nest God set up +here for such as he." + +"There are places of shelter in the hills for thy father, my Fanchon." + +"And when the priest prayed, 'That Thou mayst bring us safely to this +place where we would go,' my father said so softly, 'We beseech Thee to +hear us, good Lord!'" + +"My Fanchon, thy father hath gone this trail many times." + +"The prayer was for the out-trail, not the in-trail, my mother." + +"Nay, I do not understand thee." + +"A swarm of bees came singing through the room last night, my mother. It +was dark and I could not see, but there was a sweet smell, and I heard +the voices." + +"My child, thou art tired with watching, and thy mind is full of +fancies. Thou must sleep." + +"I am tired of watching. Through the singing of the bees as they passed +over my bed, I heard my father's voice. I could not hear the words, they +seemed so far away, like the voices of the bees; and I did not cry out, +for the tears were in my throat. After a moment the room was so still +that it made my heart ache." + +"Oh, my Fanchon, my child, thou dost break my heart! Dost thou not know +the holy words?" + +"'And their souls do pass like singing bees, where no man may follow. +These are they whom God gathereth out of the whirlwind and the desert, +and bringeth home in a goodly swarm.'" + +Night drew close to the earth, and as suddenly as a sluice-gate drops +and holds back a flood the storm ceased. Along the crest of the hills +there slowly grew a line of light, and then the serene moon came up +and on, persistent to give the earth love where it had had punishment. +Divers flocks of clouds, camp-followers of the storm, could not abash +her. But once she drew shrinking back behind a slow troop of them; +for down at the bottom of a gorge lay a mountaineer, face upward and +unmoving, as he had lain since a rock loosened beneath him, and the +depths swallowed him. If he had had ears to hear, he would have answered +the soft, bitter cries which rose from a but on the Voshti Hills above +him: + +"Michel, Michel, art thou gone?" + +"Come back, oh, my father, come back!" + +But perhaps it did avail that there were lighted candles before a little +shrine, and that a mother, in her darkness, kissed the feet of One on a +Calvary. + + + + +THE WHITE OMEN + +"Ah, Monsieur, Monsieur, come quick!" + +"My son, wilt thou not be patient?" + +"But she--my Fanchon--and the child!" + +"I knew thy Fanchon, and her father, when thou wast yet a child." + +"But they may die before we come, Monsieur." + +"These things are in God's hands, Gustave." + +"You are not a father; you have never known what makes the world seem +nothing." + +"I knew thy Fanchon's father." + +"Is that the same?" + +"There are those who save and those who die for others. Of thy love thou +wouldst save--the woman hath lain in thine arms, the child is of this. +But to thy Fanchon's father I was merely a priest--we had not hunted +together nor met often about the fire, and drew fast the curtains for +the tales which bring men close. He took me safely on the out-trail, but +on the home-trail he was cast away. Dost thou not think the love of him +that stays as great as the love of him that goes?" + +"Ah, thou wouldst go far to serve my wife and child!" + +"Love knows not distance; it hath no continent; its eyes are for the +stars, its feet for the swords; it continueth, though an army lay waste +the pasture; it comforteth when there are no medicines; it hath the +relish of manna; and by it do men live in the desert." + +"But if it pass from a man, that which he loves, and he is left alone, +Monsieur?" + +"That which is loved may pass, but love hath no end." + +"Thou didst love my Fanchon's father?" + +"I prayed him not to go, for a storm was on, but there was the thought +of wife and child on him--the good Michel--and he said: 'It is the +home-trail, and I must get to my nest.' Poor soul, poor soul! I who +carry my life as a leaf in autumn for the west wind was saved, and +he--!" + +"We are on the same trail now, Monsieur?" + +"See: how soft a night, and how goodly is the moon!" + +"It is the same trail now as then, Monsieur?" + +"And how like velvet are the shadows in the gorge there below--like +velvet-velvet." + +"Like a pall. He travelled this trail, Monsieur?" + +"I remember thy Fanchon that night--so small a child was she, with deep +brown eyes, a cloud of hair that waved about her head, and a face that +shone like spring. I have seen her but once since then, and yet thou +sayest thy Fanchon has now her great hour, that she brings forth?" + +"Yes. In the morning she cried out to me twice, for I am not easy of +waking--shame to me--and said: 'Gustave, thou shalt go for the priest +over the hills, for my time is at hand, and I have seen the White Omen +on the wall.' The White Omen--you know, Monsieur?" + +"What does such as she with the legend of the White Omen, Gustave?" + +"Who can tell what is in the heart of a mother? Their eyes are not the +eyes of such as we." + +"Neither the eyes of man nor priest--thou sayest well. How did she see +it?" + +"She was lying in a soft sleep, when something like a pain struck +through her eyes, and she waked. There upon the wall over the shrine was +the white arrow with the tuft of fire. It came and went three times, and +then she called me." + +"What tale told the arrow to thy Fanchon, Gustave?" + +"That for the child which cometh into the world a life must go from the +world." + +"The world is wide and souls are many, Gustave." + +"Most true; but her heart was heavy, and it came upon her that the child +might be spared and herself taken." + +"Is not that the light of thy home--yonder against the bunch of firs?" + +"Yes, yes, good father, they have put a light in the window. See, see, +there are two lights. Ah, merci, merci, they both live! She hath had her +hour! That was the sign our mother promised me." + +"Michel's wife--ah, yes, Michel's wife! Blessed be God. A moment, +Gustave; let us kneel here..." + +... "Monsieur, did you not see a white arrow shoot down the sky as the +prayer ended?" + +"My son, it was a falling star." + +"It seemed to have a tuft of fire." + +"Hast thou also the mind of a woman, Gustave?" + +"I cannot tell. If it was not a human soul it was a world, and death is +death." + +"Thou shalt think of life, Gustave. In thy nest there are two birds +where was but one. Keep in thy heart the joy of life and the truth of +love, and the White Omen shall be naught to thee." + +"May I say 'thou' as I speak?" + +"Thou shalt speak as I speak to thee." + +"Thy face is pale-art thou ill, mon pere?" + +"I have no beard, and the moon shines in my face." + +"Thy look is as that of one without sight." + +"Nay, nay, I can see the two lights in thy window, my son." + +"Joy--joy, a little while, and I shall clasp my Fanchon in my arms!" + +"Thy Fanchon, and the child--and the child." + +The fire sent a trembling glow through the room of a hut on a Voshti +hill, and the smell of burning fir and camphire wood filtered through +the air with a sleepy sweetness. So delicate and faint between the +quilts lay the young mother, the little Fanchon, a shining wonder still +in her face, and the exquisite touch of birth on her--for when a child +is born the mother also is born again. So still she lay until one who +gave her into the world stooped, and drawing open the linen at her +breast, nestled a little life there, which presently gave a tiny cry, +the first since it came forth. Then Fanchon's arms drew up, and, with +eyes all tenderly burning, she clasped the babe to her breast, and as +silk breast touched silk cheek, there sprang up in her the delight and +knowledge that the doom of the White Omen was not for herself. Then +she called the child by its father's name, and said into the distance: +"Gustave, Gustave, come back!" + +And the mother of Fanchon, remembering one night so many years before, +said, under her breath: "Michel, Michel, thou art gone so long!" + +With their speaking, Gustave and the priest entered on them; and Fanchon +crying out for joy, said: + +"Kiss thy child--thy little Gustave, my husband." Then, to the priest: + +"Last night I saw the White Omen, mon pere; and one could not die, nor +let the child die, without a blessing. But we shall both live now." + +The priest blessed all, and long time he talked with the wife of the +lost Michel. When he rose to go to bed she said to him: "The journey has +been too long, mon pere. Your face is pale and you tremble. Youth has no +patience. Gustave hurried you." + +"Gustave yearned for thy Fanchon and the child. The White Omen made him +afraid." + +"But the journey was too much. It is a hard, a bitter trail." + +"I have come gladly as I went once with thy Michel. But, as thou sayest, +I am tired--at my heart. I will get to my rest." + +Near dawn Gustave started from the bed where he sat watching, for he +saw the White Omen over against the shrine, and then a voice said, as it +were out of a great distance: + +"Even me also, O my father!" + +With awed footsteps, going to see, he found that a man had passed out +upon that trail by which no hunter from life can set a mark to guide a +comrade; leaving behind the bones and flesh which God set up, too heavy +to carry on so long a journey. + + + + +THE SOJOURNERS + +"My father, shall we soon be there?" + +The man stopped, and shading his eyes with his hand, looked long before +him into the silver haze. They were on the southern bank of a wide +valley, flanked by deep hills looking wise as grey-headed youth, a +legion of close comrades, showing no gap in their ranks. They seemed +to breathe; to sit, looking down into the valley, with heads dropped on +their breasts, and deep overshadowed eyes, that never changed, in mist +or snow, or sun, or any kind of weather: dark brooding lights that knew +the secrets of the world, watchful yet kind. Races, ardent with longing, +had come and gone through the valley, had passed the shining porches +in the North on the way to the quiet country; and they had never come +again, though shadows flitted back and forth when the mists came down: +visiting spirits, hungering on the old trail for some that had dropped +by the way. As the ages passed, fewer and fewer travelled through the +valley-no longer a people or a race, but twos and threes, and sometimes +a small company, like soldiers of a battered guard, and oftener still +solitary pilgrims, broken with much travel and bowed with loneliness. +But they always cried out with joy when they beheld far off in the +North, at the end of the long trail, this range of grey and violet hills +break into golden gaps with scarlet walls, and rivers of water ride +through them pleasantly. Then they hurried on to the opal haze that hung +at the end of the valley--and who heard ever of any that wished to leave +the Scarlet Hills and the quiet country beyond! + +The boy repeated his question: "My father, shall we soon be there?" + +The man withdrew his hand from over his eyes, and a strange smile came +to his lips. + +"My son," he answered, "canst thou not see? Yonder, through the gentle +mist, are the Scarlet Hills. Our journey is near done." + +The boy lifted his head and looked. "I can see nothing but the mist, my +father--not the Scarlet Hills. I am tired, I would sleep." + +"Thou shalt sleep soon. The wise men told us of the Delightful Chateau +at the gateway of the hills. Courage, my son! If I gave thee the golden +balls to toss, would it cheer thee?" + +"My father, I care not for the golden balls; but if I had horse and +sword and a thousand men, I would take a city." + +The man laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder. + +"If I, my son," he said, "had a horse and sword and a thousand men, I +would build a city." + +"Why dost thou not fly thy falcon, or write thy thoughts upon the sand, +as thou didst yesterday, my father?" + +The man loosed the falcon from his wrist, and watched it fly away. + +"My son, I care not for the falcon, nor any more for writing on the +sands." + +"My father, if thou didst build a city, I would not tear it down, but I +would keep it with my thousand men. + +"Thou hast well said, my son." And the man stooped and kissed the lad on +the forehead. + +And so they travelled on in silence for a long time, and slowly they +came to the opal haze, which smelled sweet as floating flowers, and gave +their hearts a halcyon restfulness. And glancing down at him many times, +the father saw the lad's face look serenely wise, without becoming old, +and his brown hair clustered on his forehead with all the life of youth +in it. Yet in his eyes the lad seemed as old as himself. + +"My father," said the lad again, "wouldst thou then build a city?" + +And the father answered: "Nay, my son, I would sow seed, and gather it +into harvest--enough for my needs, no more; and sit quiet in my doorway +when my work was done, and be grateful to the gods." + +The lad waited a moment, then answered: "When thou wast a governor in +our own country, thou hadst serfs and retainers without number, and +fifty men to beat upon the shields of brass to tell of thy coming +through the gates of the King's house; now thou wouldst sow a field and +sit quiet in thy doorway, like the blind seller of seed-cakes 'gainst +the temple." + +"Even so, my son." Then he stooped down, knelt upon his knees, and +kissed the earth solemnly, and when he rose there was a smile upon his +face. + +Then the lad said: "When I was the son of a governor I loved to play +with the golden balls, to shoot at the target for pearls, and to ride +the flamingo down; now I would grind the corn which thou didst reap, and +with oil make seed-cakes for our supper, and sit quiet with thee in thy +doorway." Then he too stooped down and kissed the earth, and rose up +again with a smile upon his face. + +And as they went the earth seemed suddenly to blossom anew, the glory +of the Scarlet Hills burst upon them, and they could hear bugles calling +far off and see giant figures trooping along the hills, all scarlet too, +with streaming hair. And presently, near to a lake, there was a +great gateway, and perched upon a rock near it a chateau of divine +proportions, on which was written above the perfect doorway: + +"The Keeper of the House awaits thee. Enter into Quiet." + +And they entered, and were possessed of an incomparable peace. And then +came to them an old man of noble countenance, with eye neither dimmed +nor sunken, and cheek dewy as a child's, and his voice was like an organ +when it plays the soft thanksgiving of a mother. + +"Why did ye kiss the earth as ye travelled?" he asked. Then they told +him, each with his own tongue, and he smiled upon them and questioned +them of all their speech by the way; and they answered him all honestly +and with gladness, for the searching of their hearts was a joy and +relief. But he looked most lovingly upon the lad. + +"Wouldst thou, then, indeed enter the quiet country?" he asked. + +And the lad answered: "I have lived so long in the noise!" + +"Thou hast learned all, thou hast lived all," he answered the boy. +"Beyond the Hills of Scarlet there is quiet, and thou shalt dwell there, +thou and he. Ye have the perfect desire--Go in peace, and know that +though ye are of different years, as men count time, God's clock strikes +the same for both; for both are of equal knowledge, and have the same +desire at last." + +Then, lifting up his hands, he said: "O children of men! O noisy world! +when will ye learn the delectable way?" + +Slowly they all three came from the Chateau, and through the great +gateway, and passed to the margin of a shining lake. There the two +stepped into a boat that waited for them, of which the rowers were nobly +fashioned, like the Keeper of the House, and as they bowed their heads +to a melodious blessing, the boat drew away. Soon, in the sweet haze, +they looked transfigured and enlarged, majestic figures moving through +the Scarlet Hills to the quiet country. Now the valley through which +they had passed was the Valley of Death, where the young become old, and +the old young, and all become wise. + + + + +THE TENT OF THE PURPLE MAT + +The Tent stands on the Mount of Lost Winters, in that bit of hospitable +land called the Fair Valley, which is like no other in the North. Whence +comes the soft wind that comforts it, who can tell? It swims through the +great gap in the mountains, and passing down the valley, sinks upon the +prairie of the Ten Stars, where it is lost. What man first placed the +Tent on the Mount none knows, though legends are many. It has a +clear outlook to the north, whence comes the gracious wind, and it is +sheltered at the south by a stout wall of commendable trees; yet these +are at some small distance, so that the Tent has a space all about it, +and the figure of the general land is as that of an amphitheatre. + +It is made of deerskin, dyed by a strange process which turned it white, +and doctored by some cunning medicine. It is like a perfect parchment, +and shows no decay. It has a centre-pole of excellent fir, and from its +peak flies a strip of snake-skin, dyed a red which never fades. For the +greater part of the year the plateau whereon the Tent stands is covered +with a sweet grass, and when the grass dies there comes a fine white +frost, ungoverned by the sun, in which the footstep sinks, as into an +unfilled honeycomb. + +The land has few clouds, and no storms, save of the lightest-rain which +is as mist, and snow which is as frosty haze. The sun cherishes the +place continually, and the moon rises on it with a large rejoicing. + +Yet no man dwells in the valley. It is many scores of leagues from any +habitation, from the lodges of the Indians or the posts of the Company's +people. There are few tribes that know of it, and these go not to it as +tribes, but as one man or one woman has need. Men say that beyond it, +in another amphitheatre of the hills, is the White Valley, the Place of +Peace, where the sleepers are, and the Scarlet Hunter is sentinel. Yet +who knows--since any that have been there are constrained to be silent, +or forget what they have seen? + +But this valley where the Tent stands is for those who have broken the +commandment, "Thou shalt not sell thy soul." Hither they come and wait +and desire continually; and this delightful land is their punishment, +for they have no relish for goodly things, the power to enjoy going from +them when they bargained their souls away. The great peace, the noble +pasturage, the equal joy of day and night wherein is neither heat +nor cold, where life is like the haze on a harvest-field, are for +chastisement, till that by great patience and striving, some one, having +the gift of sacrifice, shall give his life to buy back that soul. For +it is in the minds of this people of the North that for every life +that comes into the world one passes out, and for every soul which is +bartered away another must be set free ere it can be redeemed. + +Men and women whom life and their own sins had battered came seeking the +Tent; but they were few and they were chiefly old, for conscience cometh +mostly when man can work and wanton no more. Yet one day, when the +sight of the valley was most fair to their eyes, there came out of the +southmost corner a girl, who, as soon as she set foot in the valley, +laid aside her knapsack in the hollow of a tree, also her moccasins and +a little cap of fur, and came on with bare head and feet towards the +Mount of the Lost Winters. + +She was of good stature, ripely made, not beautiful of face, but with +a look which would make any man turn twice to see, a very glory of +fine hair, and a hand which spoke oftener than the lips. She had come a +month's travel, scarcely halting from sunrise to sunset, and she was as +worn in body as in spirit. Now, as she passed up the valley she stood +still several times, and looked round in a kind of dream, as well one +might who had come out of an inclement south country to this sweet +nourishment. Yet she stood not still for joy and content, but for +pain. Once or twice she lifted up her hands above her head as though +appealing, but these pauses were only for brief moments, for she kept +moving on towards the mountain with a swift step. When she had climbed +the plateau where the delicate grass yielded with a tender spring to the +feet, she paused long and gazed round, as though to take a last glance +at all; then, turning to the Tent, looked steadfastly at it, awe and +wonder, and something more difficult of interpretation, in her face. At +last she slowly came to the curtain of the Tent, and lifting it, without +a pause stepped inside, the curtain falling behind her. + +The Tent was empty save for the centre-pole, a wooden trough of dried +fruit, a jar of water, and a mat of the most gentle purple colour, which +was laid between the centre-pole and the tent-curtain. The mat was of +exquisite make, as it seemed from the chosen fibres of some perfect +wood, and the hue was as that of a Tyrian dye. A soft light pervaded +the place, perhaps filtered through the parchment-like white skin of the +Tent, for it seemed to have no other fountain. Upon the farther side +a token was drawn in purple on the tentskin, and the girl, seeing it, +turned quickly to the curtain through which she had passed. Upon the +curtain were other signs. She read them slowly, and repeated them out +loud in a low uncertain voice, like a bird's note blundering in a flute: + +"Four hours shalt thou look northward, kneeling on the Mat of Purple, +and thinking of the Camp of the Delightful Fires, around which is the +Joyous City; four hours shalt thou lie prone, thy face upon the soothing +earth, desiring sleep; and four hours shalt thou look within thine own +breast, thinking of thy sin; four hours also shalt thou go through the +valley, calling out that thou art lost, and praying the Scarlet Hunter +to bring thee home. Afterwards thou shalt sleep, and thou shalt comfort +thyself with food when thou wilt. If the Scarlet Hunter comes not, and +thy life faileth for misery, and none comprehending thy state offereth +his life, that thy soul may be free once more--then thou shalt gladly +die, and, yielding thine own body, shall purchase back thy soul; but +this is not possible until thou hast dwelt here a year and a day." + +Having read, the girl threw herself face forward on the ground, her body +shaking with grief, and she cried out a man's name many times with great +bitterness "Ambroise! Ambroise! Ambroise!" + +A long time she lay prone, crying so; but at last arose and, folding +back the curtain with hot hands, began her vigil for the redemption of a +soul. + +And while her sorrow grew, a father mourned for his daughter and called +his God to witness that he was guiltless of her loss, though he had said +hard words to her by reason of a man called Ambroise. Then, too, the +preacher had exhorted her late and early till her mind was in a maze--it +is enough to have the pangs of youth and love, to be awakened by the +pain of mere growth and knowledge, without the counsel of the overwise +to go jolting through the soul. + +The girl was only eighteen. She had never known her mother, she had +lived as the flowers do, and when her hour of trial came she felt +herself cast like a wandering bird out of the nest. In her childhood she +had known no preachers, no teaching, save the wholesome catechism of a +father's love and the sacred intimacy of Nature. Living so, learning by +signs the language of law and wisdom, she had indrawn the significance +of legend, the power of the awful natural. She had made her own +commandments. + +When Ambroise the courier came, she had looked into his eyes and seen +her own--indeed, it was most wonderful, for those two pairs of eyes were +as those of one person. And each, as each looked, smiled--that smile +which is the coming laughter of a heart at itself. Yet they were +different--he a man, she a woman; he versed in evil, she taught in +good; he a vagrant of the snows, the fruit of whose life was like the +contemptible stones of the desert; she the keeper of a goodly lodge, +past which flowed a water that went softly, making rich the land, the +fountain of her perfect deeds. He, looking into her eyes, saw himself +when he had no sin on his soul; and she into his--as it seemed, her own +always--saw herself as it were in a cobweb of evils which she could not +understand. As his heart grew lighter, hers grew sick, even when +she knew that these were the only eyes in which she could ever see +happiness. + +It grew upon her that Ambroise's sins were hers and not his; that she, +not he, had bartered a soul for the wages of sin. When they said at the +Fort that her eyes and Ambroise's, and her face and his, were as of one +piece, the pain of the thought deepened, and other pains came likewise, +for her father and the preacher urged that a man who had sold himself to +the devil was no comrade for her in little or much. Yet she loved him as +only they can who love for the first time, and with the deep primitive +emotions which are out of the core of nature. But her heart had been +cloven as by a wedge, and she would not, and could not, lie in his +arms, nor rest her cheek to his, nor seek that haven where true love +is fastened like a nail on the wall of that inn called home. He was +herself, he must be brought back; and so, one night, while yet the +winter was on, she stole away out of the Fort, pausing at his door a +moment only, laying her hand upon it as one might tenderly lay it on +the brow of a sick sleeper. Then she stepped away out on the plains, +pointing her course by the moon, for the Mount of Lost Winters and the +Tent of the Purple Mat. + +When the people of the Fort waked, and it was found that she was gone, +search parties sallied out, but returned as they went after many days. +And at last, because Ambroise suffered as one ground between rolling +stones, even the preacher and the father of the girl relented towards +him. After some weeks there came word through a wandering tribe that the +body of a girl had been found on the Child o' Sin River, and black pelts +were hung as mourning on the lodges and houses and walls of the Fort, +and the father shut himself in his room, admitting no one. Still, they +mourned without great cause. + +But, if the girl had taken the sins of Ambroise with her, she had left +him beside that soft flowing river of her goodness; and the savour of +the herbs on its banks was to him like the sun on a patch of pennyroyal, +bringing medicine to the sick body through the nostrils. So one morning, +after many months, having crept from the covert of remorse, he took +a guide to start him in the right trail, and began his journey to the +Valley, whither she had gone before him, though he knew it not. From +the moment that his guide left him dangers beset him, and those spirits +called the Mockers, which are the evil deeds of a man crying to Heaven, +came crying about him from the dead white trees, breathing through +the powdery air, whistling down the moonlight; so that to cheer him he +called out again and again, like any heathen: + + "Keeper, O Keeper of the Kimash Hills! + I am as a dog in the North Sea, + I am as a bat in a cave, + As a lizard am I on a prison wall, + As a tent with no pole, + As a bird with one wing; + I am as a seal in the desert, + I am as a wild horse alone. + O Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills! + Thou hast an arm like a shooting star, + Thou hast an eye like the North Sky fires, + Thou hast a pouch for the hungry, + Thou hast a tent for the lost: + Hear me, O Keeper of the Kimash Hills!" + +And whether or not this availed him, who can tell? There be many names +of the One Thing, and the human soul hath the same north and south, if +there be any north and south and east and west, save in the words of +men. But something availed; and one day a footworn traveller, entering +the Valley at the southmost corner, laid his cap and bag, moccasins, +bow and arrow, and an iron weapon away in a hollow log, seeing not that +there were also another bag and cap, and a pair of moccasins there. +Then, barefooted and bareheaded, he marched slowly up the Valley, and +all its loveliness smote him as a red iron is buffeted at the forge; +and an exquisite agony coursed through his veins, so that he cried out, +hiding his face. And yet he needs must look and look, all his sight +aching with this perfection, never overpowering him, but keeping him +ever in the relish of his torture. + +At last he came to the door of the Tent in the late evening, and, intent +not only to buy back the soul he had marketed--for the sake of the +memory of the woman, and believing that none would die for him and that +he must die for himself--he lifted the curtain and entered. Then he gave +a great cry, for there she lay asleep, face downward, her forehead on +the Purple Mat. + +"Sherah! Sherah!" he cried, dropping on his knees beside her and lifting +up her head. + +"Ambroise!" she called out faintly, her pale face drawing away from his +breast. + +"Sherah, why didst thou come here?" he said. "Thou! thou!" + +"To buy back my soul, Ambroise. And this is the last day of the year +that I have spent here. Oh, why, why didst thou come? To-morrow all +should have been well!" + +"To buy back thy soul--thou didst no wrong!" But at that moment their +eyes drew close, and changed, and he understood. + +"For me--for me!" he whispered. + +"Nay, for me!" she replied. + +Then they noticed that the Purple Mat on which they knelt was red under +their knees, and a goodly light shone through the Tent, not of the day +or night. And as they looked amazed, the curtain of the Tent drew open, +and one entered, clothed in red from head to foot; and they knew him to +be the Scarlet Hunter, the lover of the lost, the Keeper of the Kimash +Hills. + +Looking at them steadfastly he said to Sherah: "Thou has prevailed. +To-night, at the setting of the sun, an old man died in Syria who +uttered thy name as in a dream when he passed. The soul of Ambroise hath +been bought back by thee." + +Then he spoke to Ambroise. "Because thy spirit was willing, and for the +woman's sake thou shalt have peace; but this year which she has spent +for thee shall be taken from thy life, and added to hers. Come, and I +will start ye on the swift trail to your own country, and ye shall come +here no more." + +As they rose, obeying him, they saw that the red of the Mat had gone a +perfect white, and they knew not what to think, for they had acted after +the manner of the heathen; but that night, as they travelled with joy +towards that Inn called Home, down at the Fort, a preacher with rude +noise cried to those who would hear him: "Though your sins be as scarlet +they shall become whiter than snow." + + + + +THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY + +It lay between the mountains and the sea, and a river ran down past it, +carrying its good and ill news to a pacific shore, and out upon soft +winds, travelling lazily to the scarlet east. All white and a tempered +red, it nestled in a valley with other valleys on lower steppes, which +seemed as if built by the gods, that they might travel easily from the +white-topped mountains, Margath, Shaknon, and the rest, to wash their +feet in the sea. In the summer a hot but gracious mistiness softened the +green of the valleys, the varying colours of the hills, the blue of the +river, the sharp outlines of the cliffs. Along the high shelf of the +mountain, muletrains travelled like a procession seen in dreams--slow, +hazy, graven yet moving, a part of the ancient hills themselves; upon +the river great rafts, manned by scarlet-vested crews, swerved and +swam, guided by the gigantic oars which needed five men to lift and +swayargonauts they from the sweet-smelling forests to the salt-smelling +main. In winter the little city lay still under a coverlet of pure +white, with the mists from the river and the great falls above frozen +upon the trees, clothing them as graciously as with white samite; so +that far as eye could see there was a heavenly purity upon all, covering +every mean and distorted thing. There were days when no wind stirred +anywhere, and the gorgeous sun made the little city and all the land +round about a pretty silver kingdom, where Oberon and his courtiers +might have danced and been glad. Often, too, you could hear a distant +wood-cutter's axe make a pleasant song in the air, and the wood-cutter +himself, as the hickory and steel swung in a shining half-circle to +the bole of balsam, was clad in the bright livery of frost, his breath +issuing in grey smoke like life itself, mystic and peculiar, man, axe, +tree, and breath one common being. And when, by-and-by, the woodcutter +added a song of his own to the song his axe made, the illusion was not +lost, but rather heightened; for it, too, was part of the unassuming +pride of nature, childlike in its simplicity, primeval in its suggestion +and expression. The song had a soft monotony, swinging backwards and +forwards to the waving axe like the pendulum of a clock. It began with a +low humming, as one could think man made before he heard the Voice which +taught him how to speak. And then came the words: + + "None shall stand in the way of the lord, + The lord of the Earth--of the rivers and trees, + Of the cattle and fields and vines! + Hew! + Here shall I build me my cedar home, + A city with gates, a road to the sea + For I am the lord of the Earth! + Hew! Hew! + Hew and hew, and the sap of the tree + Shall be yours, and your bones shall be strong, + Shall be yours, and your heart shall rejoice, + Shall be yours, and the city be yours, + And the key of its gates be the key + Of the home where your little ones dwell. + Hew and be strong! Hew and rejoice! + For man is the lord of the Earth, + And God is the Lord over all!" + +And so long as the little city stands will this same wood-cutter's name +and history stand also. He had camped where it stood now, when nothing +was there save the wild duck in the reeds, the antelopes upon the hills, +and all manner of furred and feathered things; and it all was his. He +had seen the yellow flashes of gold in the stream called Pipi, and he +had not gathered it, for his life was simple, and he was young enough +to cherish in his heart the love of the open world, beyond the desire of +cities and the stir of the market-place. In those days there was not +a line in his face, not an angle in his body--all smoothly rounded and +lithe and alert, like him that was called "the young lion of Dedan." Day +by day he drank in the wisdom of the hills and the valleys, and he wrote +upon the dried barks of trees the thoughts that came as he lay upon the +bearskin in his tent, or cooled his hands and feet, of a hot summer day, +in the moist sandy earth, and watched the master of the deer lead his +cohorts down the passes of the hills. + +But by-and-by mule-trains began to crawl along the ledges of Margath +Mountain, and over Shaknon came adventurers, and after them, wandering +men seeking a new home, women and children coming also. But when these +came he had passed the spring-time of his years, and had grown fixed in +the love of the valley, where his sole visitors had been passing tribes +of Indians, who knew his moods and trespassed not at all on his domain. +The adventurers hungered for the gold in the rivers, and they made it +one long washing-trough, where the disease that afflicted them passed on +from man to man like poison down a sewer. Then the little city grew, and +with the search for gold came other seekings and findings and toilings, +and men who came as one stops at an inn to feed, stayed to make their +home, and women made the valley cheerful, and children were born, and +the pride of the place was as great as that of some village of the +crimson East, where every man has ancestors to Mahomet and beyond. + +And he, Felion, who had been lord and master of the valley, worked with +them, but did not seek for riches, and more often drew away into the +hills to find some newer place unspoiled by man. But again and again he +returned; for no fire is like the old fire, and no trail like the old +trail. And at last it seemed as if he had driven his tent-peg in the +Long Valley for ever; for, from among the women who came, he chose one +comely and wise and kind, and for five years the world grew older, and +Felion did not know it. When he danced his little daughter on his knee, +he felt that he had found a new world. + +But? a day came when trouble fell upon the little city, for of a sudden +the reef of gold was lost, and the great crushing-mills stood idle, and +the sound of the hammers was stayed. And they came to Felion, because in +his youth he had been of the best of the schoolmen; and he got up from +his misery--only the day before his wife had taken a great and lonely +journey to that Country which welcomes, but never yields again--and +leaving his little child behind, he went down to the mines. And in three +days they found the reef once more; for it had curved like the hook of a +sickle, and the first arc of the yellow circle had dropped down into the +bowels of the earth. + +And so he saved the little city from disaster, and the people blessed +him at the moment; and the years went on. + +Then there came a time when the little city was threatened with a woeful +flood, because of a breaking flume; but by a simple and wise device +Felion stayed the danger. + +And again the people blessed him; and the years went on. + +By-and-by an awful peril came, for two-score children had set a great +raft loose upon the river, and they drifted down towards the rapids in +the sight of the people; and mothers and helpless fathers wrung their +hands, for on the swift tide no boat could reach them, and none could +intercept the raft. But Felion, seeing, ran out upon the girders of a +bridge that was being builded, and there, before them all, as the raft +passed under, he let himself fall, breaking his leg as he dropped among +the timbers of the fore-part of the raft; for the children were all +gathered at the back, where the great oars lay motionless, one dragging +in the water behind. Felion drew himself over to the huge oar, and with +the strength of five men, while the people watched and prayed, he kept +the raft straight for the great slide, else it had gone over the dam and +been lost, and all that were thereon. A mile below, the raft was brought +to shore, and again the people said that Felion had saved the little +city from disaster. + +And they blessed him for the moment; and the years went on. + +Felion's daughter grew towards womanhood, and her beauty was great, and +she was welcome everywhere in the valley, the people speaking well of +her for her own sake. But at last a time came when of the men of the +valley one called, and Felion's daughter came quickly to him, and with +tears for her father and smiles for her husband, she left the valley and +journeyed into the east, having sworn to love and cherish him while she +lived. And her father, left solitary, mourned for her, and drew away +into a hill above the valley in a cedar house that he built; and having +little else to love, loved the earth, and sky, and animals, and the +children from the little city when they came his way. But his heart was +sore; for by-and-by no letters came from his daughter, and the little +city, having prospered, concerned it self no more with him. When he came +into its streets there were those who laughed, for he was very tall and +rude, and his grey hair hung loose on his shoulders, and his dress was +still a hunter's. They had not long remembered the time when a grievous +disease, like a plague, fell upon the place, and people died by scores, +as sheep fall in a murrain. And again they had turned to him, and he, +because he knew of a miraculous medicine got from Indian sachems, whose +people had suffered of this sickness, came into the little city, and by +his medicines and fearless love and kindness stayed the plague. + +And thus once more he saved the little city from disaster, and they +blessed him for the moment; and the years went on. + +In time they ceased to think of Felion at all, and he was left alone; +even the children came no more to visit him; and he had pleasure only +in hunting and shooting and in felling trees, with which he built a high +stockade and a fine cedar house within it. And all the work of this +he did with his own hands, even to the polishing of the floors and the +carved work of the large fireplaces. Yet he never lived in the house, +nor in any room of it, and the stockade gate was always shut; and when +any people passed that way they stared and shrugged their shoulders, and +thought Felion mad or a fool. But he was wise in his own way, which +was not the way of those who had reason to bless him for ever, and who +forgot him, though he had served them through so many years. Against the +little city he had an exceeding bitterness; and this grew, and had it +not been that his heart was kept young by the love of the earth, and the +beasts about him in the hills, he must needs have cursed the place and +died. But the sight of a bird in the nest with her young, and the smell +of a lair, and the light of the dawn that came out of the east, and the +winds that came up from the sea, and the hope that would not die kept +him from being of those who love not life for life's sake, be it in ease +or in sorrow. He was of those who find all worth the doing, even all +worth the suffering; and so, though he frowned and his lips drew +tight with anger when he looked down at the little city, he felt that +elsewhere in the world there was that which made it worth the saving. + +If his daughter had been with him he would have laughed at that which +his own hands had founded, protected, and saved. But no word came from +her, and laughter was never on his lips--only an occasional smile when, +perhaps, he saw two sparrows fighting, or watched the fish chase each +other in the river, or a toad, too lazy to jump, walk stupidly like +a convict, dragging his long, green legs behind him. And when Felion +looked up towards Shaknon and Margath, a light came in his eyes, for +they were wise and quiet, and watched the world, and something of their +grandeur drew about him like a cloak. As age cut deep lines in his face +and gave angles to his figure, a strange, settled dignity grew upon +him, whether he swung his axe by the balsams or dressed the skins of +the animals he had killed, piling up the pelts in a long shed in the +stockade, a goodly heritage for his daughter, if she ever came back. +Every day at sunrise he walked to the door of his house and looked +eastward steadily, and sometimes there broke from his lips the words: +"My daughter-Carille!" Again, he would sit and brood with his chin in +his hand, and smile, as though remembering pleasant things. + +One day at last, in the full tide of summer, a man, haggard and +troubled, came to Felion's house, and knocked, and, getting no reply, +waited; and whenever he looked down at the little city he wrung his +hands, and more than once he put them up to his face and shuddered, and +again looked for Felion. Just when the dusk was rolling down, Felion +came back, and, seeing the man, would have passed him without a word, +but that the man stopped with an eager, sorrowful gesture and said: +"The plague has come upon us again, and the people, remembering how you +healed them long ago, beg you to come." + +At that Felion leaned his fishing-rod against the door and answered: + +"What people?" + +The other then replied: "The people of the little city below, Felion." + +"I do not know your name," was the reply; "I know naught of you or of +your city." + +"Are you mad?" cried the man. "Do you forget the little city down there? +Have you no heart?" + +A strange smile passed over Felion's face, and he answered: "When one +forgets, why should the other remember?" + +He turned and went into the house and shut the door, and though the man +knocked, the door was no opened, and he went back angry and miserable; +and the people could not believe that Felion would no come to help them, +as he had done all his life. A dawn three others came, and they found +Felion looking out towards the east, his lips moving as though he +prayed. Yet it was no prayer, only a call, that was on his lips. They +felt a sort of awe in his presence, for now he seemed as if he had lived +more than a century, so wise and old was the look of his face, so white +his hair, so set and distant his dignity. They begged him to come, and, +bringing his medicines, save the people, for death was galloping through +the town, knocking at many doors. + +"One came to heal you," he answered--"the young man of the schools, +who wrote mystic letters after his name; it swings on a brass by his +door-where is he?" + +"He is dead of the plague," they replied, "and the other also that came +with him, who fled before the sickness, fell dead of it on the roadside, +going to the sea." + +"Why should I go?" he replied, and he turned threateningly to his +weapon, as if in menace of their presence. + +"You have no one to leave behind," they answered eagerly, "and you are +old." + +"Liars," he rejoined, "let the little city save itself!" and he wheeled +and went into his house, and they saw that they had erred in not +remembering his daughter, whose presence they had once prized. They saw +that they had angered him beyond soothing; and they went back in grief, +for two of them had lost dear relatives by the fell sickness. When they +told what had happened, the people said: "We will send the women; he +will listen to them--he had a daughter." + +That afternoon, when all the hills lay still and dead, and nowhere did +bird or breeze stir, the women came, and they found him seated with his +back turned to the town. He was looking into the deep woods, into the +hot shadows of the trees. + +"We have come to bring you to the little city," they said to him; "the +sick grow in numbers every hour." + +"It is safe in the hills," he answered, not looking at them. "Why do the +people stay in the valley?" + +"Every man has a friend, or a wife, or a child, ill or dying, and every +woman has a husband, or a child, or a friend, or a brother. Cowards have +fled, and many of them have fallen by the way." + +"Last summer I lay sick here many weeks and none came near me--why +should I go to the little city?" he demanded austerely. "Four times I +saved it, and of all that I saved none came to give me water to +drink, or food to eat, and I lay burning with fever, and thirsty and +hungry--God of heaven, how thirsty!" + +"We did not know," they answered humbly; "you came to us so seldom, we +had forgotten; we were fools." + +"I came and went fifty years," he answered bitterly, "and I have +forgotten how to rid the little city of the plague!" + +At that one of the women, mad with anger, made as if to catch him by his +beard, but she forbore, and said: "Liar--the men shall hang you to your +own rooftree!" + +His eyes had a wild light, but he waved his hand quietly, and answered: +"Begone, and learn how great a sin is ingratitude." + +He turned away from them gloomily, and would have entered his home, +but one of the women, who was young, plucked his sleeve, and said +sorrowfully: "I loved Carille, your daughter." + +"And forgot her and her father. I am three-score and ten years, and she +has been gone fifteen, and for the first time I see your face," was his +scornful reply. + +She was tempted to say: "I was ever bearing children and nursing them, +and the hills were hard to climb, and my husband would not go;" but she +saw how dark his look was, and she hid her face in her hands and turned +away to follow after the others. She had five little children, and her +heart was anxious for them and her eyes full of tears. + +Anger and remorse seized on the little city, and there were those who +would have killed Felion, but others saw that the old man had been +sorely wronged in the past, and these said: "Wait until the morrow and +we will devise something." + +That night a mule-train crept slowly down the mountain side and entered +the little city, for no one who came with them knew of the plague. The +caravan had come from the east across the great plains, and not from the +west, which was the travelled highway to the sea. Among them was a woman +who already was ill of a fever, and knew naught of what passed round +her. She had with her a beautiful child; and one of the women of the +place devised a thing. "This woman," she said, "does not belong to the +little city, and he can have nothing against her; she is a stranger. +Let one of us take this beautiful lad to him, and he shall ask Felion to +come and save his mother." + +Every one approved the woman's wisdom, and in the early morning she +herself, with another, took the child and went up the long hillside in +the heavy heat; and when they came near Felion's house the women stayed +behind, and the child went forward, having been taught what to say to +the old man. + +Felion sat just within his doorway, looking out into the sunlight which +fell upon the red and white walls of the little city, flanked by young +orchards, with great, oozy meadows beyond these, where cattle ate, +knee-deep in the lush grass and cool reed-beds. Along the riverside, +far up on the high banks, were the tall couches of dead Indians, set +on poles, their useless weapons laid along the deerskin pall. Down the +hurrying river there passed a raft, bearing a black flag on a pole, and +on it were women and children who were being taken down to the sea from +the doomed city. These were they who had lost fathers and brothers; and +now were going out alone with the shadow of the plague over them, for +there was none to say them nay. The tall oarsmen bent to their task, and +Felion felt his blood beat faster when he saw the huge oars swing high, +then drop and bend in the water, as the raft swung straight in its +course and passed on safe through the narrow slide into the white rapids +below, which licked the long timbers as with white tongues, and tossed +spray upon the sad voyagers. Felion remembered the day when he left his +own child behind and sprang from the bridge to the raft whereon were the +children of the little city, and saved them. + +And when he tried to be angry now, the thought of the children as they +watched him, with his broken leg striving against their peril, softened +his heart. He shook his head, for suddenly there came to him the memory +of a time, three-score years before, when he and the foundryman's +daughter had gone hunting flag-flowers by the little trout stream; of +the songs they sang together at the festivals, she in her sweet Quaker +garb and demure Quaker beauty, he lithe, alert, and full of the joy of +life and loving. As he sat so, thinking, he wondered where she was, and +why he should be thinking of her now, facing the dreary sorrow of this +pestilence and his own anger and vengeance. He nodded softly to the +waving trees far down in the valley, for his thoughts had drifted on +to his wife as he first saw her. She was standing bare-armed among +the grape-vines by a wall of rock, the dew of rich life on her lip and +forehead, her grey eyes swimming with a soft light; and looking at her +he had loved her at once, as he had loved, on the instant, the little +child that came to him later; as he had loved the girl into which the +child grew, till she left him and came back no more. Why had he never +gone in search of her? + +He got to his feet involuntarily and stepped towards the door, looking +down into the valley. As his eyes rested on the little city his face +grew dark, but his eyes were troubled and presently grew bewildered, for +out of a green covert near there stepped a pretty boy, who came to him +with frank, unabashed face and a half-shy smile. + +Felion did not speak at first, but stood looking, and presently the +child said: "I have come to fetch you." + +"To fetch me where, little man?" asked Felion, a light coming into his +face, his heart beating faster. + +"To my mother. She is sick." + +"Where is your mother?" + +"She's in the village down there," answered the boy, pointing. + +In spite of himself, Felion smiled in a sour sort of way, for the boy +had called the place a village, and he relished the unconscious irony. + +"What is the matter with her?" asked Felion, beckoning the lad inside. + +The lad came and stood in the doorway, gazing round curiously, while the +old man sat down and looked at him, moved, he knew not why. + +The bright steel of Felion's axe, standing in the corner, caught the +lad's eye and held it. Felion saw, and said: "What are you thinking of?" + +The lad answered: "Of the axe. When I'm bigger I will cut down trees and +build a house, a bridge, and a city. Aren't you coming quick to help my +mother? She will die if you don't come." + +Felion did not answer, and from the trees without two women watched him +anxiously. + +"Why should I come?" asked Felion curiously. "Because she's sick, and +she's my mother." + +"Why should I do it because she's your mother?" + +"I don't know," the lad answered, and his brow knitted in the attempt to +think it out, "but I like you." He came and stood beside the old man +and looked into his face with a pleasant confidence. "If your mother +was sick, and I could heal her, I would--I know I would--I wouldn't be +afraid to go down into the village." + +Here were rebuke, love, and impeachment, all in one, and the old man +half started from his seat. + +"Did you think I was afraid?" he asked of the boy, as simply as might a +child of a child, so near are children and wise men in their thoughts. + +"I knew if you didn't it'd be because you were angry or were afraid, and +you didn't look angry." + +"How does one look when one is angry?" + +"Like my father." + +"And how does your father look?" + +"My father's dead." + +"Did he die of the plague?" asked Felion, laying his hand on the lad's +shoulder. + +"No," said the lad quickly, and shut his lips tight. + +"Won't you tell me?" asked Felion, with a strange inquisitiveness. + +"No. Mother'll tell you, but I won't." The lad's eyes filled with tears. + +"Poor boy--poor boy!" said Felion, and his hand tightened on the small +shoulder. + +"Don't be sorry for me; be sorry for mother, please," said the boy, and +he laid a hand on the old man's knee, and that touch went to a heart +long closed against the little city below; and Felion rose and said: "I +will go with you to your mother." + +Then he went into another room, and the boy came near the axe and ran +his fingers along the bright steel, and fondled the handle, as does a +hunter the tried weapon which has been his through many seasons. When +the old man came back he said to the boy: "Why do you look at the axe?" + +"I don't know," was the answer; "maybe because my mother used to sing +a song about the wood-cutters." Without a word, and thinking much, he +stepped out into the path leading to the little city, the lad holding +one hand. Years afterwards men spoke with a sort of awe or reverence +of seeing the beautiful stranger lad leading old Felion into the +plague-stricken place, and how, as they passed, women threw themselves +at Felion's feet, begging him to save their loved ones. And a drunkard +cast his arm round the old man's shoulder and sputtered foolish +pleadings in his ear; but Felion only waved them back gently, and said: +"By-and-by, by-and-by--God help us all!" + +Now a fevered hand snatched at him from a doorway, moanings came from +everywhere, and more than once he almost stumbled over a dead body; +others he saw being carried away to the graveyard for hasty burial. Few +were the mourners that followed, and the faces of those who watched the +processions go by were set and drawn. The sunlight and the green trees +seemed an insult to the dead. + +They passed into the house where the sick woman lay, and some met him at +the door with faces of joy and meaning; for now they knew the woman +and would have spoken to him of her; but he waved them off, and put his +fingers upon his lips and went where a fire burned in a kitchen, and +brewed his medicines. And the child entered the room where his mother +lay, and presently he came to the kitchen and said: "She is asleep--my +mother." + +The old man looked down on him a moment steadily, and a look of +bewilderment came into his face. But he turned away again to the +simmering pots. The boy went to the window and, leaning upon the sill, +began to hum softly a sort of chant, while he watched a lizard running +hither and thither in the sun. As he hummed, the old man listened, and +presently, with his medicines in his hands and a half-startled look, he +came over to the lad. + +"What are you humming?" he asked. + +The lad answered: "A song of the wood-cutters." + +"Sing it again," said Felion. + +The lad began to sing: + + "Here shall I build me my cedar house, + A city with gates, a road to the sea-- + For I am the lord of the Earth! Hew! Hew!" + +The old man stopped him. "What is your name?" + +"My name is Felion," answered the lad; and he put his face close to the +jug that held the steaming tinctures: but the old man caught the little +chin in his huge hand and bent back the head, looking long into the +lad's eyes. At last he caught little Felion's hand and hurried into the +other room, where the woman lay in a stupor. The old man came quickly to +her and looked into her face. Seeing, he gave a broken cry and said: + +"Carille, my daughter! Carille!" + +He drew her to his breast, and as he did so he groaned aloud, for +he knew that inevitable Death was waiting for her at the door. He +straightened himself up, clasped the child to his breast, and said: "I, +too, am Felion, my little son." + +And then he set about to defeat that dark, hovering Figure at the door. + +For three long hours he sat beside her, giving her little by little his +potent medicines; and now and again he stopped his mouth with his hand, +lest he should cry out; and his eyes never wavered from her face, not +even to the boy, who lay asleep in the corner. + +At last his look relaxed its vigilance, for a dewy look passed over the +woman's face, and she opened her eyes and saw him, and gave a little cry +of "Father!" and was straightway lost in his arms. + +"I have come home to die," she said. + +"No, no, to live!" he answered firmly. "Why did you not send me word all +these long years?" + +"My husband was in shame, in prison, and I in sorrow," she answered +sadly. "I could not." + +"He did evil? He is--" he paused. + +"He is dead," she said. "It is better so." Her eyes wandered round the +room restlessly, and then fixed upon the sleeping child, and a smile +passed over her face. She pointed to the lad. + +The old man nodded. "He brought me here," he said gently. Then he got to +his feet. "You must sleep now," he added, and he gave her a cordial. "I +must go forth and save the sick." + +"Is it a plague?" she asked. + +He nodded. "They said you would not come to save them," she continued +reproachfully. "You came to me because I was your Carille, only for +that?" + +"No, no," he answered; "I knew not who you were. I came to save a mother +to her child." + +"Thank God!" she said. + +With a happy smile she hid her face in the pillow. At last, leaving her +and the child asleep, old Felion went forth into the little city, +and the people flocked to him, and for many days he came and went +ceaselessly. + +And once more he saved the city, and the people blessed him: and the +years go on. + + + + +THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY + +He lay where he could see her working at the forge. As she worked she +sang: + + "When God was making the world, + (Swift is the wind and white is the fire) + The feet of his people danced the stars; + There was laughter and swinging bells, + + And clanging iron and breaking breath, + The hammers of heaven making the hills, + The vales on the anvil of God. + (Wild is the fire and low is the wind.)" + +His eyes were shining, and his face had a pale radiance from the +reflected light, though he lay in the shadow where he could watch her, +while she could not see him. Now her hand was upon the bellows, and the +low, white fire seethed hungrily up, and set its teeth upon the iron +she held; now it turned the iron about upon the anvil, and the sparks +showered about her very softly and strangely. There was a cheerful +gravity in her motions, a high, fine look in her face. + +They two lived alone in the solitudes of Megalon Valley. + +It was night now, and the pleasant gloom of the valley was not broken +by any sound save the hum of the stream near by, and the song, and the +ringing anvil. But into the workshop came the moist, fragrant smell of +the acacia and the maple, and a long brown lizard stretched its neck +sleepily across the threshold of the door opening into the valley. + +The song went on: + + "When God had finished the world + (Bright was the fire and sweet was the wind) + Up from the valleys came song, + To answer the morning stars, + And the hand of man on the anvil rang; + His breath was big in his breast, his life + Beat strong on the walls of the world. + (Glad is the wind and tall is the fire.)" + +He put his hands to his eyes, and took them away again, as though to +make sure that the song was not a dream. Wonder grew upon his thin, +bearded face, he ran his fingers through his thick hair in a dazed way. +Then he lay and looked, and a rich warm flush crept over his cheek, and +stayed there. + +There was a great gap in his memory. + +The evening wore on. Once or twice the woman turned towards the room +where the man lay, and listened--she could not see his face from where +she stood. At such times he lay still, though his heart beat quickly, +like that of an expectant child. His lips opened to speak, but still +they remained silent. As yet he was like a returned traveller who does +not quickly recognise old familiar things, and who is struggling with +vague suggestions and forgotten events. As time went on, the woman +turned towards the doorway oftener, and shifted her position so that she +faced it, and the sparks, flying up, lighted her face with a wonderful +irregular brightness. + +"Samantha," he said at last, and his voice sounded so strange to him +that the word quivered timidly towards her. + +She paused upon a stroke, and some new note in his voice sent so sudden +a thrill to her heart that she caught her breath with a painful kind of +joy. The hammer dropped upon the anvil, and, in a moment, she stood in +the doorway of his room. + +"Francis, Francis," she responded in a low whisper. He started up from +his couch of skins. "Samantha, my wife!" he cried, in a strong proud +voice. + +She dropped beside him and caught his head, like a mother, to her +shoulder, and set her warm lips on his forehead and hair with a kind of +hunger; and then he drew her face down and kissed her on the lips. Tears +hung at her eyes, and presently dropped on her cheeks, a sob shook her, +and then she was still, her hands grasping his shoulders. + +"Have I been ill?" he asked. + +"You have been very ill, Francis." + +"Has it been long?" + +Her fingers passed tenderly through his grizzled hair. "Too long, too +long, my husband," she replied. + +"Is it summer now?" + +"Yes, Francis, it is summer." + +"Was it in the spring, Samantha?--Yes, I think it was in the spring," he +added, musing. + +"It was in a spring." + +"There was snow still on the mountain-top, the river was running high, +and wild fowl were gathered on the island in the lake--yes, I remember, +I think." + +"And the men were working at the mine," she whispered, her voice shaking +a little, and her eyes eagerly questioning his face. + +"Ah, the mine--it was the mine, Samantha!" he said abruptly, his eyes +flashing up. "I was working at the forge to make a great bolt for the +machinery, and some one forgot and set the engine in motion. I ran out; +but it was too late... and then..." + +"And then you tried to save them, Francis, and you were hurt." + +"What month is this, my wife?" + +"It is December." + +"And that was in October?" + +"Yes, in October." + +"I have been ill since? What happened?" + +"Many were killed, Francis, and you and I came away." + +"Where are we now? I do not know the place." + +"This is Megalon Valley. You and I live alone here." + +"Why did you bring me here?" + +"I did not bring you, Francis; you wished me to come. One day you said +to me: 'There is a place in Megalon Valley where, long ago, an old man +lived, who had become a stranger among men--a place where the blackbird +stays, and the wolf-dog troops and hides, and the damson grows as thick +as blossoms on the acacia. We will go there.' And I came with you." + +"I do not remember. What of the mine? Was I a coward and left the mine? +There was no one understood the ways of the wheel, and rod, and steam, +save me. + +"The mine is closed, Francis," she answered gently. "You were no coward, +but--but you had strange fancies. + +"When did the mine close?" he said, with a kind of sorrow; "I put hard +work and good years into it." At that moment, when her face drew close +to his, the vision of her as she stood at the anvil came to him with a +new impression, and he said again in a half-frightened way: "When did it +close, Samantha?" + +"The mine was closed--twelve years ago, my own dear husband." + +He got to his feet and clasped her to his breast. A strength came to him +which had eluded him twelve years, and she, womanlike, delighted in that +strength, and, with a great gladness, changed eyes and hands with him; +keeping her soul still her own, brooding and lofty, as is the soul of +every true woman, though, like this one, she labours at a forge, and in +a far, untenanted country is faithful friend, ceaseless apothecary to a +comrade with a disordered mind; living on savage meats, clothing herself +and the other in skins, and, with a divine persistence, keeping a +cheerful heart, certain that the intelligence which was frightened from +its home would come back one day. It should be hers to watch for the +great moment, and give the wanderer loving welcome, lest it should hurry +madly away again into the desert, never to return. + +She had her reward, yet she wept. She had carried herself before him +with the bright ways of an unvexed girl these twelve years past; she had +earned the salt of her tears. He was dazed still, but, the doublet of +his mind no longer unbraced, he understood what she had been to him, and +how she had tended him in absolute loneliness, her companions the wild +things of the valley--these and God. + +He drew her into the workshop, and put his hand upon the bellows and +churned them, so that the fire roared joyously up, and the place was red +with the light. In this light he turned her to him and looked at her. +The look was as that of one who had come back from the dead--that naked, +profound, unconditional gaze which is as deep and honest as the primeval +sense. His eyes fell upon her rich, firm, stately body; it lingered for +a moment on the brown fulness of her hair; then her look was gathered to +his, and they fell into each other's arms. + +For long they sat in the solemn silence of their joy, and so awed were +they by the thing which had come to them that they felt no surprise when +a wolf-dog crawled over the lizard on the threshold, and stole along +the wall with shining, bloody eyes to an inner room, and stayed there +munching meat to surfeit and drowsiness, and at last crept out and lay +beside the forge in a thick sleep. These two had lived so much with +the untamed things of nature, the bellows and the fire had been so long +there, and the clang of the anvil was so familiar, that there was a +kinship among them, man and beast, with the woman as ruler. + +"Tell me, Samantha," he said at last, "what has happened during these +twelve years, all from the first. Keep nothing back. I am strong now." +He looked around the workshop, then, suddenly, at her, with a strange +pain, and they both turned their heads away for an instant, for the same +thought was on them. Then, presently, she spoke, and answered his shy, +sorrowful thought before all else. "The child is gone," she softly said. + +He sat still, but a sob was in his throat. He looked at her with a kind +of fear. He wondered if his madness had cost the life of the child. She +understood. "Did I ever see the child?" he asked. + +"Oh yes, I sometimes thought that through the babe you would be yourself +again. When you were near her you never ceased to look at her and fondle +her, as I thought very timidly; and you would start sometimes and gaze +at me with the old wise look hovering at your eyes. But the look did not +stay. The child was fond of you, but she faded and pined, and one day +as you nursed her you came to me and said: 'See, beloved, the little +one will not wake. She pulled at my beard and said, "Daddy," and fell +asleep.' And I took her from your arms.... There is a chestnut tree +near the door of our cottage at the mine. One night you and I buried her +there; but you do not remember her, do you?" + +"My child, my child!" he said, looking out into the night; and he lifted +up his arms and looked at them. "I held her here, and still I never held +her; I fondled her, and yet I never fondled her; I buried her, yet--to +me--she never was born." + +"You have been far away, Francis; you have come back home. I waited, and +prayed, and worked with you, and was patient.... It is very strange," +she continued. "In all these twelve years you cannot remember our past, +though you remembered about this place--the one thing, as if God had +made it so--and now you cannot remember those twelve years." + +"Tell me now of the twelve years," he urged. + +"It was the same from day to day. When we came from the mountain, we +brought with us the implements of the forge upon a horse. Now and again +as we travelled we cut our way through the heavy woods. You were changed +for the better then; a dreadful trouble seemed to have gone from your +face. There was a strong kind of peace in the valley, and there were so +many birds and animals, and the smell of the trees was so fine, that we +were not lonely, neither you nor I." + +She paused, thinking, her eyes looking out to where the Evening Star was +sailing slowly out of the wooded horizon, his look on her. In the pause +the wolf-dog raised its big, sleepy eyes at them, then plunged its head +into its paws, its wildness undisturbed by their presence. + +Presently the wife continued: "At last we reached here, and here we +have lived, where no human being, save one, has ever been. We put up the +forge, and in a little hill not far away we found coal for it. The days +went on. It was always summer, though there came at times a sharp frost, +and covered the ground with a coverlet of white. But the birds were +always with us, and the beasts were our friends. I learned to love even +the shrill cry of the reed hens, and the soft tap-tap of the wood-pecker +is the sweetest music to my ear after the song of the anvil. How often +have you and I stood here at the anvil, the fire heating the iron, and +our hammers falling constantly! Oh, Francis, I knew that only here with +God and His dumb creatures, and His wonderful healing world, all sun, +and wind, and flowers, and blossoming trees, working as you used to +work, as the first of men worked, would the sane wandering soul return +to you. The thought was in you, too, for you led me here, and have been +patient also in the awful exile of your mind." + +"I have been as a child, and not as a man," he said gravely. "Shall I +ever again be a man, as I once was, Samantha?" + +"You cannot see yourself," she said. "A week ago you fell ill, and since +then you have been pale and worn; but your body has been, and is, that +of a great strong man. In the morning I will take you to a spring in the +hills, and you shall see yourself, beloved." + +He stood up, stretched himself, went to the door, and looked out into +the valley flooded with moonlight. He drew in a great draught of air, +and said: "The world--the great, wonderful world, where men live, and +love work, and do strong things!"--he paused, and turned with a trouble +in his face. "My wife," he said, "you have lived with a dead man twelve +years, and I have lost twelve years in the world. I had a great thought +once--an invention--but now--" he hung his head bitterly. She came to +him, and her hands slid up along his breast to his shoulders, and rested +there; and she said, with a glad smile: "Francis, you have lost nothing. +The thing--the invention--was all but finished when you fell ill a week +ago. We have worked at it for these twelve years; through it, I think, +you have been brought back to me. Come, there is a little work yet to, +do upon it;" and she drew him to where a machine of iron lay in the +corner. With a great cry he fell upon his knees beside it, and fondled +it. + +Then, presently, he rose, and caught his wife to his breast. + +Together, a moment later, they stood beside the anvil. The wolf-dog fled +out into the night from the shower of sparks, as, in the red light, the +two sang to the clanging of the hammers: + + "When God was making the world + (Swift is the wind and white is the fire)" + + + + ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + + Counsel of the overwise to go jolting through the soul + Love knows not distance; it hath no continent + When a child is born the mother also is born again + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Parables Of A Province, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARABLES OF A PROVINCE *** + +***** This file should be named 6242.txt or 6242.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/4/6242/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + +Title: Parables Of A Province + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6242] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 17, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARABLES OF A PROVINCE, PARKER *** + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + + + +PARABLES OF A PROVINCE + +By Gilbert Parker + + + +THE GOLDEN PIPES +THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE +BY THAT PLACE CALLED PERADVENTURE +THE SINGING OF THE BEES +THE WHITE OMEN +THE SOJOURNERS +THE TENT OF THE PURPLE MAT +THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY +THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY + + + +THE GOLDEN PIPES + +They hung all bronzed and shining, on the side of Margath Mountain--the +tall and perfect pipes of the organ which was played by some son of God +when the world was young. At least Hepnon the cripple said this was so, +when he was but a child, and when he got older he said that even now a +golden music came from the pipes at sunrise and sunset. And no one +laughed at Hepnon, for you could not look into the dark warm eyes, +dilating with his fancies, or see the transparent temper of his face, the +look of the dreamer over all, without believing him, and reproving your +own judgment. You felt that he had travelled ways you could never +travel, that he had had dreams beyond you, that his fanciful spirit had +had adventures you would give years of your dull life to know. + +And yet he was not made only as women are made, fragile and trembling in +his nerves. For he was strong of arm, and there was no place in the +hills to be climbed by venturesome man, which he could not climb with +crutch and shrivelled leg. Also, he was a gallant horseman, riding with +his knees and one foot in stirrup, his crutch slung behind him. It may +be that was why rough men listened to his fancies about the Golden Pipes. +Indeed they would go out at sunrise and look across to where the pipes +hung, taking the rosy glory of the morning, and steal away alone at +sunset, and in some lonely spot lean out towards the flaming instrument +to hear if any music rose from them. The legend that one of the Mighty +Men of the Kimash Hills came here to play, with invisible hands, the +music of the first years of the world, became a truth, though a truth +that none could prove. And by-and-by, no man ever travelled the valley +without taking off his hat as he passed the Golden Pipes--so had a +cripple with his whimsies worked upon the land. + +Then, too, perhaps his music had to do with it. As a child he had only +a poor concertina, but by it he drew the traveller and the mountaineer +and the worker in the valley to him like a magnet. Some touch of the +mysterious, some sweet fantastical melody in all he played, charmed them, +even when he gave them old familiar airs. From the concertina he passed +to the violin, and his skill and mastery over his followers grew; and +then there came a notable day when up over a thousand miles of country a +melodeon was brought him. Then a wanderer, a minstrel outcast from a far +country, taking refuge in those hills, taught him, and there was one long +year of loving labour together, and merry whisperings between the two, +and secret drawings, and worship of the Golden Pipes; and then the +minstrel died, and left Hepnon alone. + +And now they said that Hepnon tried to coax out of the old melodeon the +music of the Golden Pipes. But a look of sorrow grew upon his face, and +stayed for many months. Then there came a change, and he went into the +woods, and began working there in the perfect summer weather; and the +tale went abroad that he was building an organ, so that he might play for +all who came, the music he heard on the Golden Pipes--for they had +ravished his ear since childhood, and now he must know the wonderful +melodies all by heart, they said. + +With consummate patience Hepnon dried the wood and fashioned it into long +tuneful tubes, beating out soft metal got from the forge in the valley to +case the lips of them, tanning the leather for the bellows, stretching +it, and exposing all his work to the sun of early morning, which gave +every fibre and valve a rich sweetness, like a sound fruit of autumn. +People also said that he set all the pieces out at sunrise and sunset +that the tone of the Golden Pipes might pass into them, so that when the +organ was built, each part should be saturated with such melody as it had +drawn in, according to its temper and its fibre. + +So the building of the organ went on, and a year passed, and then +another, and it was summer again; and soon Hepnon began to build also-- +while yet it was sweet weather--a home for his organ, a tall nest of +cedar added to his father's house. And in it every piece of wood, and +every board had been made ready by his own hands, and set in the sun and +dried slowly to a healthy soundness; and he used no nails of metal, but +wooden pins of the iron-wood or hickory tree, and it was all polished, +and there was no paint or varnish anywhere; and when you spoke in this +nest your voice sounded pure and strong. + +At last the time came when, piece by piece, the organ was set up in its +home; and as the days and weeks went by, and autumn drew to winter, and +the music of the Golden Pipes stole down the flumes of snow to their +ardent lover, and spring came with its sap, and small purple blossoms, +and yellow apples of mandrake, and summer stole on luxurious and dry; the +face of Hepnon became thinner and thinner, a strange deep light shone in +his eyes, and all his person seemed to exhale a kind of glow. He ceased +to ride, to climb, to lift weights with his strong arms, as he had--poor +cripple--been once so proud to do. A delicacy came upon him, and more +and more he withdrew himself to his organ, and to those lofty and lonely +places where he could see--and hear--the Golden Pipes boom softly over +the valley. + +At last it all was done, even to the fine-carved stool of cedar whereon +he should sit when he played his organ. Never yet had he done more than +sound each note as he made it, trying it, softening it by tender devices +with the wood; but now the hour was come when he should gather down the +soul of the Golden Pipes to his fingers, and give to the ears of the +world the song of the morning stars, the music of Jubal and his comrades, +the affluent melody to which the sons of men, in the first days, paced +the world in time with the thoughts of God. For days he lived alone in +the cedar-house--and who may know what he was doing dreaming, listening, +or praying? Then the word went through the valley and the hills, that +one evening he would play for all who came; and that day was "Toussaint," +or the Feast of All Souls. + +So they came both old and young, and they did not enter the house, but +waited outside, upon the mossy rocks, or sat among the trees, and watched +the heavy sun roll down and the Golden Pipes flame in the light of +evening. Far beneath in the valley the water ran lightly on, but there +came no sound from it, none from anywhere; only a general pervasive +murmur quieting to the heart. + +Now they heard a note come from the organ--a soft low sound that seemed +to rise out of the good earth and mingle with the vibrant air, the song +of birds, the whisper of trees, and the murmuring water. Then came +another, and another note, then chords, and chords upon these, and by- +and-by, rolling tides of melody, until, as it seemed to the listeners, +the air ached with the incomparable song; and men and women wept, and +children hid their heads in the laps of their mothers, and young men and +maidens dreamed dreams never to be forgotten. For one short hour the +music went on, then twilight came. Presently the sounds grew fainter, +and exquisitely painful, and now a low sob seemed to pass through all the +heart of the organ, and then silence fell, and in the sacred pause, +Hepnon came out among them all, pale and desolate. He looked at them a +minute most sadly, and then lifting up his arms towards the Golden Pipes, +now hidden in the dusk, he cried low and brokenly: + +"O my God, give me back my dream!" + +Then his crutch seemed to give way beneath him, and he sank upon the +ground, faint and gasping. + +They raised him up, and women and men whispered in his ear + +"Ah, the beautiful, beautiful music, Hepnon!" But he only said: "O my +God, O my God, give me back my dream!" When he had said it thrice, he +turned his face to where his organ was in the cedar-house, and then his +eyes closed, and he fell asleep: and they could not wake him. But at +sunrise the next morning a shiver passed through him, and then a cold +quiet stole over him, and Hepnon and the music of the Golden Pipes +departed from the Voshti Hills, and came again no more. + + + + + + +THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE + +"Height unto height answereth knowledge." + +His was the first watch, the farthest fire, for Shaknon Hill towered +above the great gulf, and looked back also over thirty leagues of country +towards the great city. There came a time again when all the land was +threatened. From sovereign lands far off, two fleets were sailing hard +to reach the wide basin before the walled city, the one to save, the +other to destroy. If Tinoir, the Guardian of the Fire, should sight the +destroying fleet, he must light two fires on Shaknon Hill, and then, at +the edge of the wide basin, in a treacherous channel, the people would +send out fire-rafts to burn the ships of the foe. Five times in the past +had Tinoir been the Guardian of the Fire, and five times had the people +praised him; but praise and his scanty wage were all he got. + +The hut in which he lived with his wife on another hill, ten miles from +Shaknon, had but two rooms, and their little farm and the garden gave +them only enough to live--no more. Elsewhere there was good land in +abundance, but it had been said years ago to Tinoir by the great men, +that he should live not far from Shaknon, so that in times of peril he +might guard the fire and be sentinel for all the people. Perhaps Tinoir +was too dull to see that he was giving all and getting naught; that while +he waited and watched he was always poor, and also was getting old. +There was no house or home within fifty miles of them, and only now and +then some wandering Indians lifted the latch, and drew in beside their +hearth, or a good priest with a soul of love for others, came and said +Mass in the room where a little Calvary had been put up. Two children +had come and gone, and Tinoir and Dalice had dug their graves and put +them in a warm nest of maple leaves, and afterwards lived upon the +memories of them. But after these two, children came no more; and Tinoir +and Dalice grew closer and closer to each other, coming to look alike in +face, as they had long been alike in mind and feeling. None ever lived +nearer to nature than they, and wild things grew to be their friends; so +that you might see Dalice at her door tossing crumbs with one hand to +birds, and with the other bits of meat to foxes, martens, and wild dogs, +which came and went unharmed by them. Tinoir shot no wild animals for +profit--only for food and for skins and furs to wear. Because of this he +was laughed at by all who knew, save the priest of St. Sulpice, who, on +Easter Day, when the little man came yearly to Mass over two hundred +miles of country, praised him to his people, and made much of him, though +Tinoir was not vain enough to see it. + +When word came down the river, and up over the hills to Tinoir, that war +was come and that he must go to watch for the hostile fleet and for the +friendly fleet as well, he made no murmur, though it was the time of +harvest, and Dalice had had a sickness from which she was not yet +recovered. + +"Go, my Tinoir," said Dalice, with a little smile, "and I will reap the +grain. If your eyes are sharp you shall see my bright sickle moving in +the sun." + +"There is the churning of the milk too, Dalice," answered Tinoir; "you +are not strong, and sometimes the butter comes slow; and there's the +milking also." + +"Strength is coming to me fast, Tinoir," she said, and drew herself up; +but her dress lay almost flat on her bosom. Tinoir took her arm and felt +it above the elbow. + +"It is like the muscle of a little child," he said. + +"But I will drink those bottles of red wine the Governor sent the last +time you watched the fire on Shaknon," she said, brightening up, and +trying to cheer him. He nodded, for he saw what she was trying to do, +and said: "Also a little of the gentian and orange root three times a +day-eh, Dalice?" + +After arranging for certain signs, by little fires, which they were to +light upon the hills and so speak with each other, they said, "Good day, +Dalice," and "Good day, Tinoir," drank a glass of the red wine, and +added: "Thank the good God;" then Tinoir wiped his mouth with his sleeve, +and went away, leaving Dalice with a broken glass at her feet, and a look +in her eyes which it was well that Tinoir did not see. + +But as he went he was thinking how, the night before, Dalice had lain +with her arm round his neck hour after hour as she slept, as she did +before they ever had a child; and that even in her sleep, she kissed him +as she used to kiss him before he brought her away from the parish of +Ste. Genevieve to be his wife. And the more he thought about it the +happier he became, and more than once he stopped and shook his head in +pleased retrospection. And Dalice thought of it too as she hung over the +churn, her face drawn and tired and shining with sweat; and she shook her +head, and tears came into her eyes, for she saw further into things +than Tinoir. And once as she passed his coat on the wall, she rubbed it +softly with her hand, as she might his curly head when he lay beside her. + +From Shaknon Tinoir watched; but of course he could never see her bright +sickle shining, and he could not know whether her dress still hung loose +upon her breast, or whether the flesh of her arms was still like a +child's. If all was well with Dalice a little fire should be lighted at +the house door just at the going down of the sun, and it should be at +once put out. If she was ill, a fire should be lit and then put out two +hours after sundown. If she should be ill beyond any help, this fire +should burn on till it went out. + +Day after day Tinoir, as he watched for the coming fleet, saw the fire +lit at sundown, and then put out. But one night the fire did not come +till two hours after sundown, and it was put out at once. He fretted +much, and he prayed that Dalice might be better, and he kept to his post, +looking for the fleet of the foe. Evening after evening was this other +fire lighted and then put out at once; and a great longing came to him to +leave this guarding of the fire, and go to her--"For half a day," he +said--"just for half a day!" But in that half day the fleet might pass, +and then it would be said that Tinoir had betrayed his country. At last +sleep left him, and he fought a demon night and day; and always he +remembered Dalice's arm about his neck, and her kisses that last night +they were together. Twice he started away from his post to go to her, +but before he had gone a hundred paces he came back. + +At last one afternoon he saw ships, not far off, rounding the great cape +in the gulf, and after a time, at sunset, he knew by their shape it was +the fleet of the foe; and so he lighted his great fires, and they were +answered leagues away towards the city by another beacon. + +Two hours after sunset of this day the fire in front of Tinoir's home was +lighted, and was not put out, and Tinoir sat and watched it till it died +away. So he lay in the light of his own great war-fire till morning, for +he could not travel at night, and then, his duty over, he went back to +his home. He found Dalice lying beside the ashes of her fire, past +hearing all he said in her ear, unheeding the kiss he set upon her lips. + +Two nights afterwards, coming back from laying her beside her children, +he saw a great light in the sky towards the city, as of a huge fire. +When the courier came to him bearing the Governor's message and the +praise of the people, and told of the enemy's fleet destroyed by the +fire-rafts, he stared at the man, then turned his head to a place where a +pine cross showed against the green grass, and said: + +"Dalice--my wife--is dead." + +"You have saved your country, Tinoir," answered the courier kindly. + +"I have lost Dalice!" he said, and fondled the rosary Dalice used to +carry when she lived; and he would speak to the man no more. + + + + + + +BY THAT PLACE CALLED PERADVENTURE + +By that place called Peradventure in the Voshti Hills dwelt Golgothar the +strong man, who, it was said, could break an iron pot with a blow, or +pull a tall sapling from the ground. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would go and +conquer Nooni, the city of our foes." + +Because he had not the hundred men he did not go; and Nooni still sent +insults to the country of Golgothar, and none could travel safe between +the capitals. And Golgothar was sorry. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would build a dyke +to keep the floods back from the people crowded on the lowlands." + +Because he had not the hundred men, now and again the floods came down, +and swept the poor folk out to sea, or laid low their habitations. And +Golgothar pitied them. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would clear the +wild boar from the forests, that the children should not fear to play +among the trees." + +Because he had not the hundred men the graves of children multiplied, and +countless mothers sat by empty beds and mourned. And Golgothar put his +head between his knees in trouble for them. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would with great +stones mend the broken pier, and the bridge between the islands should +not fall." Because he had not the hundred men, at last the bridge gave +way, and a legion of the king's army were carried to the whirlpool, where +they fought in vain. And Golgothar made a feast of remembrance to them, +and tears dripped on his beard when he said: "Hail and Farewell!" + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would go against +the walls of chains our rebels built, and break them one by one." + +Because he had not the hundred men, the chain walls blocked the only pass +between the hills, and so cut in two the kingdom: and they who pined for +corn went wanting, and they who yearned for fish stayed hungry. And +Golgothar, brooding, said his heart bled for his country. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong," said Golgothar, "I would go among the +thousand brigands of Mirnan, and bring again the beloved daughter of our +city." + +Because he had not the hundred men the beloved lady languished in her +prison, for the brigands asked as ransom the city of Talgone which they +hated. And Golgothar carried in his breast a stone image she had given +him, and for very grief let no man speak her name before him. + +"If I had a hundred men so strong--" said Golgothar, one day, standing on +a great point of land and looking down the valley. + +As he said it, he heard a laugh, and looking down he saw Sapphire, or +Laugh of the Hills, as she was called. A long staff of iron-wood was in +her hands, with which she jumped the dykes and streams and rocky +fissures; in her breast were yellow roses, and there was a tuft of pretty +feathers in her hair. She reached up and touched him on the breast with +her staff, then she laughed again, and sang a snatch of song in mockery: + + "I am a king, + I have no crown, + I have no throne to sit in--" + +"Pull me up, boy," she said. She wound a leg about the staff, and, +taking hold, he drew her up as if she had been a feather. + +"If I had a hundred mouths I would kiss you for that," she said, still +mocking; "but having only one, I'll give it to the cat, and weep for +Golgothar." + +"Silly jade," he said, and turned towards his tent. + +As they passed a slippery and dangerous place, where was one strong +solitary tree, she suddenly threw a noose over him, drew it fast and +sprang far out over the precipice into the air. Even as she did so, he +jumped behind the tree, and clasped it, else on the slippery place he +would have gone over with her. The rope came taut, and presently he drew +her up again to safety, and while she laughed at him and mocked him, he +held her tight under his arm, and carried her to his lodge, where he let +her go. + +"Why did you do it, devil's madcap?" he asked. + +"Why didn't you wait for the hundred men so strong?" she laughed. + +"Why did you jump behind the tree? + + "'If I had a hundred men, heigho, + I would buy my corn for a penny a gill. + If I had a hundred men or so, + I would dig a grave for the maid of the hill, heigho!'" + +He did not answer her, but stirred the soup in the pot and tasted it, and +hung a great piece of meat over the fire. Then he sat down, and only +once did he show anger as she mocked him, and that was when she thrust +her hand into his breast, took out the little stone image, and said: + + "If a little stone god had a hundred hearts, + Would a little stone goddess trust in one?" + +Then she made as if she would throw it into the fire, but he caught her +hand and crushed it, so that she cried out for pain and anger, and said: + +"Brute of iron, go break the posts in the brigands' prison-house, but +leave a poor girl's wrist alone. If I had a hundred men--" she added, +mocking wildly again, and then, springing at him, put her two thumbs at +the corners of his eyes, and cried: "Stir a hand, and out they will come +--your eyes for my bones!" + +He did not stir till her fury was gone. Then he made her sit down and +eat with him, and afterwards she said softly to him, and without a laugh: +"Why should the people say, 'Golgothar is our shame, for he has great +strength, and yet he does nothing but throw great stones for sport into +the sea'?" + +He had the simple mind of a child, and he listened to her patiently, and +at last got up and began preparing for a journey, cleaning all his +weapons, and gathering them together. She understood him, and she said, +with a little laugh like music: "One strong man is better than a hundred +--a little key will open a great door easier than a hundred hammers. +What is the strength of a hundred bullocks without this?" she added, +tapping him on the forehead. + +Then they sat down and talked together quietly for a long time; and at +sunset she saw him start away upon great errands. + +Before two years had gone, Nooni, the city of their foes, was taken; the +chain wall of the rebels opened to the fish and corn of the poor; the +children wandered in the forest without fear of wild boars; the dyke was +built to save the people in the lowlands; and Golgothar carried to the +castle the King had given him the daughter of the city, freed from +Mirnan. + +"If Golgothar had a hundred wives--" said a voice to the strong man as he +entered the castle gates. Looking up he saw Sapphire. He stretched out +his hand to her in joy and friendship. + +"--I would not be one of them," she added, with a mocking laugh, as she +dropped from the wall, leaped the moat by the help of her staff, and +danced away laughing. There are those who say, however that tears fell +down her cheeks as she laughed. + + + + + + +THE SINGING OF THE BEES + +"Mother, didst thou not say thy prayers last night?" + +"Twice, my child." + +"Once before the little shrine, and once beside my bed--is it not so?" + +"It is so, my Fanchon. What hast thou in thy mind?" + +"Thou didst pray that the storm die in the hills, and the flood cease, +and that my father come before it was again the hour of prayer. It is +now the hour. Canst thou not hear the storm and the wash of the flood? +And my father does not come!" + +"Dear Fanchon, God is good." + +"When thou wast asleep I rose from my bed, and in the dark I kissed the +feet of--Him--on the little Calvary; and I did not speak, but in my heart +I called." + +"What didst thou call, my child?" + +"I called to my father: 'Come back-come back!'" + +"Thou shouldst have called to God, my Fanchon." + +"I loved my father, and I called to him." + +"Thou shouldst love God." + +"I knew my father first. If God loved thee, He would answer thy prayer. +Dost thou not hear the cracking of the cedar trees and the cry of the +wolves--they are afraid. All day and all night the rain and wind come +down, and the birds and wild fowl have no peace. I kissed--His feet, and +my throat was full of tears; but I called in my heart. Yet the storm and +the dark stay, and my father does not come." + +"Let us be patient, my Fanchon." + +"He went to guide the priest across the hills. Why does not God guide +him back?" + +"My Fanchon, let us be patient." + +"The priest was young, and my father has grey hair." + +"Wilt thou not be patient, my child?" + +"He filled the knapsack of the priest with food better than his own, and +--thou didst not see it--put money in his hand." + +"My own, the storm may pass." + +"He told the priest to think upon our home as a little nest God set up +here for such as he." + +"There are places of shelter in the hills for thy father, my Fanchon." + +"And when the priest prayed, 'That Thou mayst bring us safely to this +place where we would go,' my father said so softly, 'We beseech Thee to +hear us, good Lord!'" + +"My Fanchon, thy father hath gone this trail many times." + +"The prayer was for the out-trail, not the in-trail, my mother." + +"Nay, I do not understand thee." + +"A swarm of bees came singing through the room last night, my mother. +It was dark and I could not see, but there was a sweet smell, and I heard +the voices." + +"My child, thou art tired with watching, and thy mind is full of fancies. +Thou must sleep." + +"I am tired of watching. Through the singing of the bees as they passed +over my bed, I heard my father's voice. I could not hear the words, they +seemed so far away, like the voices of the bees; and I did not cry out, +for the tears were in my throat. After a moment the room was so still +that it made my heart ache." + +"Oh, my Fanchon, my child, thou dost break my heart! Dost thou not know +the holy words?" + +"'And their souls do pass like singing bees, where no man may follow. +These are they whom God gathereth out of the whirlwind and the desert, +and bringeth home in a goodly swarm.'" + +Night drew close to the earth, and as suddenly as a sluice-gate drops and +holds back a flood the storm ceased. Along the crest of the hills there +slowly grew a line of light, and then the serene moon came up and on, +persistent to give the earth love where it had had punishment. Divers +flocks of clouds, camp-followers of the storm, could not abash her. But +once she drew shrinking back behind a slow troop of them; for down at the +bottom of a gorge lay a mountaineer, face upward and unmoving, as he had +lain since a rock loosened beneath him, and the depths swallowed him. If +he had had ears to hear, he would have answered the soft, bitter cries +which rose from a but on the Voshti Hills above him: + +"Michel, Michel, art thou gone?" + +"Come back, oh, my father, come back!" + +But perhaps it did avail that there were lighted candles before a little +shrine, and that a mother, in her darkness, kissed the feet of One on a +Calvary. + + + + + + +THE WHITE OMEN + +"Ah, Monsieur, Monsieur, come quick!" + +"My son, wilt thou not be patient?" + +"But she--my Fanchon--and the child!" + +"I knew thy Fanchon, and her father, when thou wast yet a child." + +"But they may die before we come, Monsieur." + +"These things are in God's hands, Gustave." + +"You are not a father; you have never known what makes the world seem +nothing." + +"I knew thy Fanchon's father." + +"Is that the same?" + +"There are those who save and those who die for others. Of thy love thou +wouldst save--the woman hath lain in thine arms, the child is of this. +But to thy Fanchon's father I was merely a priest--we had not hunted +together nor met often about the fire, and drew fast the curtains for the +tales which bring men close. He took me safely on the out-trail, but on +the home-trail he was cast away. Dost thou not think the love of him +that stays as great as the love of him that goes?" + +"Ah, thou wouldst go far to serve my wife and child!" + +"Love knows not distance; it hath no continent; its eyes are for the +stars, its feet for the swords; it continueth, though an army lay waste +the pasture; it comforteth when there are no medicines; it hath the +relish of manna; and by it do men live in the desert." + +"But if it pass from a man, that which he loves, and he is left alone, +Monsieur?" + +"That which is loved may pass, but love hath no end." + +"Thou didst love my Fanchon's father?" + +"I prayed him not to go, for a storm was on, but there was the thought of +wife and child on him--the good Michel--and he said: 'It is the home- +trail, and I must get to my nest.' Poor soul, poor soul! I who carry my +life as a leaf in autumn for the west wind was saved, and he--!" + +"We are on the same trail now, Monsieur?" + +"See: how soft a night, and how goodly is the moon!" + +"It is the same trail now as then, Monsieur?" + +"And how like velvet are the shadows in the gorge there below--like +velvet-velvet." + +"Like a pall. He travelled this trail, Monsieur?" + +"I remember thy Fanchon that night--so small a child was she, with deep +brown eyes, a cloud of hair that waved about her head, and a face that +shone like spring. I have seen her but once since then, and yet thou +sayest thy Fanchon has now her great hour, that she brings forth?" + +"Yes. In the morning she cried out to me twice, for I am not easy of +waking--shame to me--and said: 'Gustave, thou shalt go for the priest +over the hills, for my time is at hand, and I have seen the White Omen +on the wall.' The White Omen--you know, Monsieur?" + +"What does such as she with the legend of the White Omen, Gustave?" + +"Who can tell what is in the heart of a mother? Their eyes are not the +eyes of such as we." + +"Neither the eyes of man nor priest--thou sayest well. How did she see +it?" + +"She was lying in a soft sleep, when something like a pain struck through +her eyes, and she waked. There upon the wall over the shrine was the +white arrow with the tuft of fire. It came and went three times, and +then she called me." + +"What tale told the arrow to thy Fanchon, Gustave?" + +"That for the child which cometh into the world a life must go from the +world." + +"The world is wide and souls are many, Gustave." + +"Most true; but her heart was heavy, and it came upon her that the child +might be spared and herself taken." + +"Is not that the light of thy home--yonder against the bunch of firs?" + +"Yes, yes, good father, they have put a light in the window. See, see, +there are two lights. Ah, merci, merci, they both live! She hath had +her hour! That was the sign our mother promised me." + +"Michel's wife--ah, yes, Michel's wife! Blessed be God. A moment, +Gustave; let us kneel here . . ." + +. . . "Monsieur, did you not see a white arrow shoot down the sky as +the prayer ended?" + +"My son, it was a falling star." + +"It seemed to have a tuft of fire." + +"Hast thou also the mind of a woman, Gustave?" + +"I cannot tell. If it was not a human soul it was a world, and death is +death." + +"Thou shalt think of life, Gustave. In thy nest there are two birds +where was but one. Keep in thy heart the joy of life and the truth of +love, and the White Omen shall be naught to thee." + +"May I say 'thou' as I speak?" + +"Thou shalt speak as I speak to thee." + +"Thy face is pale-art thou ill, mon pere?" + +"I have no beard, and the moon shines in my face." + +"Thy look is as that of one without sight." + +"Nay, nay, I can see the two lights in thy window, my son." + +"Joy--joy, a little while, and I shall clasp my Fanchon in my arms!" + +"Thy Fanchon, and the child--and the child." + +The fire sent a trembling glow through the room of a hut on a Voshti +hill, and the smell of burning fir and camphire wood filtered through the +air with a sleepy sweetness. So delicate and faint between the quilts +lay the young mother, the little Fanchon, a shining wonder still in her +face, and the exquisite touch of birth on her--for when a child is born +the mother also is born again. So still she lay until one who gave her +into the world stooped, and drawing open the linen at her breast, nestled +a little life there, which presently gave a tiny cry, the first since it +came forth. Then Fanchon's arms drew up, and, with eyes all tenderly +burning, she clasped the babe to her breast, and as silk breast touched +silk cheek, there sprang up in her the delight and knowledge that the +doom of the White Omen was not for herself. Then she called the child by +its father's name, and said into the distance: "Gustave, Gustave, come +back!" + +And the mother of Fanchon, remembering one night so many years before, +said, under her breath: "Michel, Michel, thou art gone so long!" + +With their speaking, Gustave and the priest entered on them; and Fanchon +crying out for joy, said: + +"Kiss thy child--thy little Gustave, my husband." Then, to the priest: + +"Last night I saw the White Omen, mon pere; and one could not die, nor +let the child die, without a blessing. But we shall both live now." + +The priest blessed all, and long time he talked with the wife of the lost +Michel. When he rose to go to bed she said to him: "The journey has been +too long, mon pere. Your face is pale and you tremble. Youth has no +patience. Gustave hurried you." + +"Gustave yearned for thy Fanchon and the child. The White Omen made him +afraid." + +"But the journey was too much. It is a hard, a bitter trail." + +"I have come gladly as I went once with thy Michel. But, as thou sayest, +I am tired--at my heart. I will get to my rest." + +Near dawn Gustave started from the bed where he sat watching, for he saw +the White Omen over against the shrine, and then a voice said, as it were +out of a great distance: + +"Even me also, O my father!" + +With awed footsteps, going to see, he found that a man had passed out +upon that trail by which no hunter from life can set a mark to guide a +comrade; leaving behind the bones and flesh which God set up, too heavy +to carry on so long a journey. + + + + + + +THE SOJOURNERS + +"My father, shall we soon be there?" + +The man stopped, and shading his eyes with his hand, looked long before +him into the silver haze. They were on the southern bank of a wide +valley, flanked by deep hills looking wise as grey-headed youth, a legion +of close comrades, showing no gap in their ranks. They seemed to +breathe; to sit, looking down into the valley, with heads dropped on +their breasts, and deep overshadowed eyes, that never changed, in mist or +snow, or sun, or any kind of weather: dark brooding lights that knew +the secrets of the world, watchful yet kind. Races, ardent with longing, +had come and gone through the valley, had passed the shining porches in +the North on the way to the quiet country; and they had never come again, +though shadows flitted back and forth when the mists came down: visiting +spirits, hungering on the old trail for some that had dropped by the way. +As the ages passed, fewer and fewer travelled through the valley-no +longer a people or a race, but twos and threes, and sometimes a small +company, like soldiers of a battered guard, and oftener still solitary +pilgrims, broken with much travel and bowed with loneliness. But they +always cried out with joy when they beheld far off in the North, at the +end of the long trail, this range of grey and violet hills break into +golden gaps with scarlet walls, and rivers of water ride through them +pleasantly. Then they hurried on to the opal haze that hung at the end +of the valley--and who heard ever of any that wished to leave the Scarlet +Hills and the quiet country beyond! + +The boy repeated his question: "My father, shall we soon be there?" + +The man withdrew his hand from over his eyes, and a strange smile came to +his lips. + +"My son," he answered, "canst thou not see? Yonder, through the gentle +mist, are the Scarlet Hills. Our journey is near done." + +The boy lifted his head and looked. "I can see nothing but the mist, my +father--not the Scarlet Hills. I am tired, I would sleep." + +"Thou shalt sleep soon. The wise men told us of the Delightful Chateau +at the gateway of the hills. Courage, my son! If I gave thee the golden +balls to toss, would it cheer thee?" + +"My father, I care not for the golden balls; but if I had horse and sword +and a thousand men, I would take a city." + +The man laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder. + +"If I, my son," he said, "had a horse and sword and a thousand men, I +would build a city." + +"Why dost thou not fly thy falcon, or write thy thoughts upon the sand, +as thou didst yesterday, my father?" + +The man loosed the falcon from his wrist, and watched it fly away. + +"My son, I care not for the falcon, nor any more for writing on the +sands." + +"My father, if thou didst build a city, I would not tear it down, but I +would keep it with my thousand men. + +"Thou hast well said, my son." And the man stooped and kissed the lad on +the forehead. + +And so they travelled on in silence for a long time, and slowly they came +to the opal haze, which smelled sweet as floating flowers, and gave their +hearts a halcyon restfulness. And glancing down at him many times, the +father saw the lad's face look serenely wise, without becoming old, and +his brown hair clustered on his forehead with all the life of youth in +it. Yet in his eyes the lad seemed as old as himself. + +"My father," said the lad again, "wouldst thou then build a city?" + +And the father answered: "Nay, my son, I would sow seed, and gather it +into harvest--enough for my needs, no more; and sit quiet in my doorway +when my work was done, and be grateful to the gods." + +The lad waited a moment, then answered: "When thou wast a governor in our +own country, thou hadst serfs and retainers without number, and fifty men +to beat upon the shields of brass to tell of thy coming through the gates +of the King's house; now thou wouldst sow a field and sit quiet in thy +doorway, like the blind seller of seed-cakes 'gainst the temple." + +"Even so, my son." Then he stooped down, knelt upon his knees, and +kissed the earth solemnly, and when he rose there was a smile upon his +face. + +Then the lad said: "When I was the son of a governor I loved to play with +the golden balls, to shoot at the target for pearls, and to ride the +flamingo down; now I would grind the corn which thou didst reap, and with +oil make seed-cakes for our supper, and sit quiet with thee in thy +doorway." Then he too stooped down and kissed the earth, and rose up +again with a smile upon his face. + +And as they went the earth seemed suddenly to blossom anew, the glory of +the Scarlet Hills burst upon them, and they could hear bugles calling far +off and see giant figures trooping along the hills, all scarlet too, +with streaming hair. And presently, near to a lake, there was a great +gateway, and perched upon a rock near it a chateau of divine proportions, +on which was written above the perfect doorway: + +"The Keeper of the House awaits thee. Enter into Quiet." + +And they entered, and were possessed of an incomparable peace. And then +came to them an old man of noble countenance, with eye neither dimmed nor +sunken, and cheek dewy as a child's, and his voice was like an organ when +it plays the soft thanksgiving of a mother. + +"Why did ye kiss the earth as ye travelled?" he asked. Then they told +him, each with his own tongue, and he smiled upon them and questioned +them of all their speech by the way; and they answered him all honestly +and with gladness, for the searching of their hearts was a joy and +relief. But he looked most lovingly upon the lad. + +"Wouldst thou, then, indeed enter the quiet country?" he asked. + +And the lad answered: "I have lived so long in the noise!" + +"Thou hast learned all, thou hast lived all," he answered the boy. +"Beyond the Hills of Scarlet there is quiet, and thou shalt dwell there, +thou and he. Ye have the perfect desire--Go in peace, and know that +though ye are of different years, as men count time, God's clock strikes +the same for both; for both are of equal knowledge, and have the same +desire at last." + +Then, lifting up his hands, he said: "O children of men! O noisy world! +when will ye learn the delectable way?" + +Slowly they all three came from the Chateau, and through the great +gateway, and passed to the margin of a shining lake. There the two +stepped into a boat that waited for them, of which the rowers were nobly +fashioned, like the Keeper of the House, and as they bowed their heads to +a melodious blessing, the boat drew away. Soon, in the sweet haze, they +looked transfigured and enlarged, majestic figures moving through the +Scarlet Hills to the quiet country. Now the valley through which they +had passed was the Valley of Death, where the young become old, and the +old young, and all become wise. + + + + + + +THE TENT OF THE PURPLE MAT + +The Tent stands on the Mount of Lost Winters, in that bit of hospitable +land called the Fair Valley, which is like no other in the North. Whence +comes the soft wind that comforts it, who can tell? It swims through the +great gap in the mountains, and passing down the valley, sinks upon the +prairie of the Ten Stars, where it is lost. What man first placed the +Tent on the Mount none knows, though legends are many. It has a clear +outlook to the north, whence comes the gracious wind, and it is sheltered +at the south by a stout wall of commendable trees; yet these are at some +small distance, so that the Tent has a space all about it, and the figure +of the general land is as that of an amphitheatre. + +It is made of deerskin, dyed by a strange process which turned it white, +and doctored by some cunning medicine. It is like a perfect parchment, +and shows no decay. It has a centre-pole of excellent fir, and from its +peak flies a strip of snake-skin, dyed a red which never fades. For the +greater part of the year the plateau whereon the Tent stands is covered +with a sweet grass, and when the grass dies there comes a fine white +frost, ungoverned by the sun, in which the footstep sinks, as into an +unfilled honeycomb. + +The land has few clouds, and no storms, save of the lightest-rain which +is as mist, and snow which is as frosty haze. The sun cherishes the +place continually, and the moon rises on it with a large rejoicing. + +Yet no man dwells in the valley. It is many scores of leagues from any +habitation, from the lodges of the Indians or the posts of the Company's +people. There are few tribes that know of it, and these go not to it as +tribes, but as one man or one woman has need. Men say that beyond it, in +another amphitheatre of the hills, is the White Valley, the Place of +Peace, where the sleepers are, and the Scarlet Hunter is sentinel. Yet +who knows--since any that have been there are constrained to be silent, +or forget what they have seen? + +But this valley where the Tent stands is for those who have broken the +commandment, "Thou shalt not sell thy soul." Hither they come and wait +and desire continually; and this delightful land is their punishment, for +they have no relish for goodly things, the power to enjoy going from them +when they bargained their souls away. The great peace, the noble +pasturage, the equal joy of day and night wherein is neither heat nor +cold, where life is like the haze on a harvest-field, are for +chastisement, till that by great patience and striving, some one, having +the gift of sacrifice, shall give his life to buy back that soul. For it +is in the minds of this people of the North that for every life that +comes into the world one passes out, and for every soul which is bartered +away another must be set free ere it can be redeemed. + +Men and women whom life and their own sins had battered came seeking the +Tent; but they were few and they were chiefly old, for conscience cometh +mostly when man can work and wanton no more. Yet one day, when the sight +of the valley was most fair to their eyes, there came out of the +southmost corner a girl, who, as soon as she set foot in the valley, laid +aside her knapsack in the hollow of a tree, also her moccasins and a +little cap of fur, and came on with bare head and feet towards the Mount +of the Lost Winters. + +She was of good stature, ripely made, not beautiful of face, but with a +look which would make any man turn twice to see, a very glory of fine +hair, and a hand which spoke oftener than the lips. She had come a +month's travel, scarcely halting from sunrise to sunset, and she was as +worn in body as in spirit. Now, as she passed up the valley she stood +still several times, and looked round in a kind of dream, as well one +might who had come out of an inclement south country to this sweet +nourishment. Yet she stood not still for joy and content, but for pain. +Once or twice she lifted up her hands above her head as though appealing, +but these pauses were only for brief moments, for she kept moving on +towards the mountain with a swift step. When she had climbed the plateau +where the delicate grass yielded with a tender spring to the feet, she +paused long and gazed round, as though to take a last glance at all; +then, turning to the Tent, looked steadfastly at it, awe and wonder, and +something more difficult of interpretation, in her face. At last she +slowly came to the curtain of the Tent, and lifting it, without a pause +stepped inside, the curtain falling behind her. + +The Tent was empty save for the centre-pole, a wooden trough of dried +fruit, a jar of water, and a mat of the most gentle purple colour, which +was laid between the centre-pole and the tent-curtain. The mat was of +exquisite make, as it seemed from the chosen fibres of some perfect wood, +and the hue was as that of a Tyrian dye. A soft light pervaded the +place, perhaps filtered through the parchment-like white skin of the +Tent, for it seemed to have no other fountain. Upon the farther side a +token was drawn in purple on the tentskin, and the girl, seeing it, +turned quickly to the curtain through which she had passed. Upon the +curtain were other signs. She read them slowly, and repeated them out +loud in a low uncertain voice, like a bird's note blundering in a flute: + +"Four hours shalt thou look northward, kneeling on the Mat of Purple, and +thinking of the Camp of the Delightful Fires, around which is the Joyous +City; four hours shalt thou lie prone, thy face upon the soothing earth, +desiring sleep; and four hours shalt thou look within thine own breast, +thinking of thy sin; four hours also shalt thou go through the valley, +calling out that thou art lost, and praying the Scarlet Hunter to bring +thee home. Afterwards thou shalt sleep, and thou shalt comfort thyself +with food when thou wilt. If the Scarlet Hunter comes not, and thy life +faileth for misery, and none comprehending thy state offereth his life, +that thy soul may be free once more--then thou shalt gladly die, and, +yielding thine own body, shall purchase back thy soul; but this is not +possible until thou hast dwelt here a year and a day." + +Having read, the girl threw herself face forward on the ground, her body +shaking with grief, and she cried out a man's name many times with great +bitterness "Ambroise! Ambroise! Ambroise!" + +A long time she lay prone, crying so; but at last arose and, folding back +the curtain with hot hands, began her vigil for the redemption of a soul. + +And while her sorrow grew, a father mourned for his daughter and called +his God to witness that he was guiltless of her loss, though he had said +hard words to her by reason of a man called Ambroise. Then, too, the +preacher had exhorted her late and early till her mind was in a maze--it +is enough to have the pangs of youth and love, to be awakened by the pain +of mere growth and knowledge, without the counsel of the overwise to go +jolting through the soul. + +The girl was only eighteen. She had never known her mother, she had +lived as the flowers do, and when her hour of trial came she felt herself +cast like a wandering bird out of the nest. In her childhood she had +known no preachers, no teaching, save the wholesome catechism of a +father's love and the sacred intimacy of Nature. Living so, learning by +signs the language of law and wisdom, she had indrawn the significance of +legend, the power of the awful natural. She had made her own +commandments. + +When Ambroise the courier came, she had looked into his eyes and seen her +own--indeed, it was most wonderful, for those two pairs of eyes were as +those of one person. And each, as each looked, smiled--that smile which +is the coming laughter of a heart at itself. Yet they were different--he +a man, she a woman; he versed in evil, she taught in good; he a vagrant +of the snows, the fruit of whose life was like the contemptible stones of +the desert; she the keeper of a goodly lodge, past which flowed a water +that went softly, making rich the land, the fountain of her perfect +deeds. He, looking into her eyes, saw himself when he had no sin on his +soul; and she into his--as it seemed, her own always--saw herself as it +were in a cobweb of evils which she could not understand. As his heart +grew lighter, hers grew sick, even when she knew that these were the only +eyes in which she could ever see happiness. + +It grew upon her that Ambroise's sins were hers and not his; that she, +not he, had bartered a soul for the wages of sin. When they said at the +Fort that her eyes and Ambroise's, and her face and his, were as of one +piece, the pain of the thought deepened, and other pains came likewise, +for her father and the preacher urged that a man who had sold himself to +the devil was no comrade for her in little or much. Yet she loved him as +only they can who love for the first time, and with the deep primitive +emotions which are out of the core of nature. But her heart had been +cloven as by a wedge, and she would not, and could not, lie in his arms, +nor rest her cheek to his, nor seek that haven where true love is +fastened like a nail on the wall of that inn called home. He was +herself, he must be brought back; and so, one night, while yet the winter +was on, she stole away out of the Fort, pausing at his door a moment +only, laying her hand upon it as one might tenderly lay it on the brow of +a sick sleeper. Then she stepped away out on the plains, pointing her +course by the moon, for the Mount of Lost Winters and the Tent of the +Purple Mat. + +When the people of the Fort waked, and it was found that she was gone, +search parties sallied out, but returned as they went after many days. +And at last, because Ambroise suffered as one ground between rolling +stones, even the preacher and the father of the girl relented towards +him. After some weeks there came word through a wandering tribe that the +body of a girl had been found on the Child o' Sin River, and black pelts +were hung as mourning on the lodges and houses and walls of the Fort, and +the father shut himself in his room, admitting no one. Still, they +mourned without great cause. + +But, if the girl had taken the sins of Ambroise with her, she had left +him beside that soft flowing river of her goodness; and the savour of the +herbs on its banks was to him like the sun on a patch of pennyroyal, +bringing medicine to the sick body through the nostrils. So one morning, +after many months, having crept from the covert of remorse, he took a +guide to start him in the right trail, and began his journey to the +Valley, whither she had gone before him, though he knew it not. From the +moment that his guide left him dangers beset him, and those spirits +called the Mockers, which are the evil deeds of a man crying to Heaven, +came crying about him from the dead white trees, breathing through the +powdery air, whistling down the moonlight; so that to cheer him he called +out again and again, like any heathen: + + "Keeper, O Keeper of the Kimash Hills! + I am as a dog in the North Sea, + I am as a bat in a cave, + As a lizard am I on a prison wall, + As a tent with no pole, + As a bird with one wing; + I am as a seal in the desert, + I am as a wild horse alone. + O Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills! + Thou hast an arm like a shooting star, + Thou hast an eye like the North Sky fires, + Thou hast a pouch for the hungry, + Thou hast a tent for the lost: + Hear me, O Keeper of the Kimash Hills!" + +And whether or not this availed him, who can tell? There be many names +of the One Thing, and the human soul hath the same north and south, if +there be any north and south and east and west, save in the words of men. +But something availed; and one day a footworn traveller, entering the +Valley at the southmost corner, laid his cap and bag, moccasins, bow and +arrow, and an iron weapon away in a hollow log, seeing not that there +were also another bag and cap, and a pair of moccasins there. Then, +barefooted and bareheaded, he marched slowly up the Valley, and all its +loveliness smote him as a red iron is buffeted at the forge; and an +exquisite agony coursed through his veins, so that he cried out, hiding +his face. And yet he needs must look and look, all his sight aching with +this perfection, never overpowering him, but keeping him ever in the +relish of his torture. + +At last he came to the door of the Tent in the late evening, and, intent +not only to buy back the soul he had marketed--for the sake of the memory +of the woman, and believing that none would die for him and that he must +die for himself--he lifted the curtain and entered. Then he gave a great +cry, for there she lay asleep, face downward, her forehead on the Purple +Mat. + +"Sherah! Sherah!" he cried, dropping on his knees beside her and +lifting up her head. + +"Ambroise!" she called out faintly, her pale face drawing away from his +breast. + +"Sherah, why didst thou come here?" he said. "Thou! thou!" + +"To buy back my soul, Ambroise. And this is the last day of the year +that I have spent here. Oh, why, why didst thou come? To-morrow all +should have been well!" + +"To buy back thy soul--thou didst no wrong!" But at that moment their +eyes drew close, and changed, and he understood. + +"For me--for me!" he whispered. + +"Nay, for me!" she replied. + +Then they noticed that the Purple Mat on which they knelt was red under +their knees, and a goodly light shone through the Tent, not of the day or +night. And as they looked amazed, the curtain of the Tent drew open, and +one entered, clothed in red from head to foot; and they knew him to be +the Scarlet Hunter, the lover of the lost, the Keeper of the Kimash +Hills. + +Looking at them steadfastly he said to Sherah: "Thou has prevailed. +To-night, at the setting of the sun, an old man died in Syria who uttered +thy name as in a dream when he passed. The soul of Ambroise hath been +bought back by thee." + +Then he spoke to Ambroise. "Because thy spirit was willing, and for the +woman's sake thou shalt have peace; but this year which she has spent for +thee shall be taken from thy life, and added to hers. Come, and I will +start ye on the swift trail to your own country, and ye shall come here +no more." + +As they rose, obeying him, they saw that the red of the Mat had gone a +perfect white, and they knew not what to think, for they had acted after +the manner of the heathen; but that night, as they travelled with joy +towards that Inn called Home, down at the Fort, a preacher with rude +noise cried to those who would hear him: "Though your sins be as scarlet +they shall become whiter than snow." + + + + + + +THERE WAS A LITTLE CITY + +It lay between the mountains and the sea, and a river ran down past it, +carrying its good and ill news to a pacific shore, and out upon soft +winds, travelling lazily to the scarlet east. All white and a tempered +red, it nestled in a valley with other valleys on lower steppes, which +seemed as if built by the gods, that they might travel easily from the +white-topped mountains, Margath, Shaknon, and the rest, to wash their +feet in the sea. In the summer a hot but gracious mistiness softened the +green of the valleys, the varying colours of the hills, the blue of the +river, the sharp outlines of the cliffs. Along the high shelf of the +mountain, muletrains travelled like a procession seen in dreams--slow, +hazy, graven yet moving, a part of the ancient hills themselves; upon the +river great rafts, manned by scarlet-vested crews, swerved and swam, +guided by the gigantic oars which needed five men to lift and +swayargonauts they from the sweet-smelling forests to the salt-smelling +main. In winter the little city lay still under a coverlet of pure +white, with the mists from the river and the great falls above frozen +upon the trees, clothing them as graciously as with white samite; so that +far as eye could see there was a heavenly purity upon all, covering every +mean and distorted thing. There were days when no wind stirred anywhere, +and the gorgeous sun made the little city and all the land round about a +pretty silver kingdom, where Oberon and his courtiers might have danced +and been glad. Often, too, you could hear a distant wood-cutter's axe +make a pleasant song in the air, and the wood-cutter himself, as the +hickory and steel swung in a shining half-circle to the bole of balsam, +was clad in the bright livery of frost, his breath issuing in grey smoke +like life itself, mystic and peculiar, man, axe, tree, and breath one +common being. And when, by-and-by, the woodcutter added a song of his +own to the song his axe made, the illusion was not lost, but rather +heightened; for it, too, was part of the unassuming pride of nature, +childlike in its simplicity, primeval in its suggestion and +expression. The song had a soft monotony, swinging backwards and +forwards to the waving axe like the pendulum of a clock. It began with a +low humming, as one could think man made before he heard the Voice which +taught him how to speak. And then came the words: + + "None shall stand in the way of the lord, + The lord of the Earth--of the rivers and trees, + Of the cattle and fields and vines! + Hew! + Here shall I build me my cedar home, + A city with gates, a road to the sea + For I am the lord of the Earth! + Hew! Hew! + Hew and hew, and the sap of the tree + Shall be yours, and your bones shall be strong, + Shall be yours, and your heart shall rejoice, + Shall be yours, and the city be yours, + And the key of its gates be the key + Of the home where your little ones dwell. + Hew and be strong! Hew and rejoice! + For man is the lord of the Earth, + And God is the Lord over all!" + +And so long as the little city stands will this same wood-cutter's name +and history stand also. He had camped where it stood now, when nothing +was there save the wild duck in the reeds, the antelopes upon the hills, +and all manner of furred and feathered things; and it all was his. He +had seen the yellow flashes of gold in the stream called Pipi, and he had +not gathered it, for his life was simple, and he was young enough to +cherish in his heart the love of the open world, beyond the desire of +cities and the stir of the market-place. In those days there was not a +line in his face, not an angle in his body--all smoothly rounded and +lithe and alert, like him that was called "the young lion of Dedan." Day +by day he drank in the wisdom of the hills and the valleys, and he wrote +upon the dried barks of trees the thoughts that came as he lay upon the +bearskin in his tent, or cooled his hands and feet, of a hot summer day, +in the moist sandy earth, and watched the master of the deer lead his +cohorts down the passes of the hills. + +But by-and-by mule-trains began to crawl along the ledges of Margath +Mountain, and over Shaknon came adventurers, and after them, wandering +men seeking a new home, women and children coming also. But when these +came he had passed the spring-time of his years, and had grown fixed in +the love of the valley, where his sole visitors had been passing tribes +of Indians, who knew his moods and trespassed not at all on his domain. +The adventurers hungered for the gold in the rivers, and they made it one +long washing-trough, where the disease that afflicted them passed on from +man to man like poison down a sewer. Then the little city grew, and with +the search for gold came other seekings and findings and toilings, and +men who came as one stops at an inn to feed, stayed to make their home, +and women made the valley cheerful, and children were born, and the pride +of the place was as great as that of some village of the crimson East, +where every man has ancestors to Mahomet and beyond. + +And he, Felion, who had been lord and master of the valley, worked with +them, but did not seek for riches, and more often drew away into the +hills to find some newer place unspoiled by man. But again and again he +returned; for no fire is like the old fire, and no trail like the old +trail. And at last it seemed as if he had driven his tent-peg in the +Long Valley for ever; for, from among the women who came, he chose one +comely and wise and kind, and for five years the world grew older, and +Felion did not know it. When he danced his little daughter on his knee, +he felt that he had found a new world. + +But? a day came when trouble fell upon the little city, for of a sudden +the reef of gold was lost, and the great crushing-mills stood idle, and +the sound of the hammers was stayed. And they came to Felion, because in +his youth he had been of the best of the schoolmen; and he got up from +his misery--only the day before his wife had taken a great and lonely +journey to that Country which welcomes, but never yields again--and +leaving his little child behind, he went down to the mines. And in three +days they found the reef once more; for it had curved like the hook of a +sickle, and the first arc of the yellow circle had dropped down into the +bowels of the earth. + +And so he saved the little city from disaster, and the people blessed him +at the moment; and the years went on. + +Then there came a time when the little city was threatened with a woeful +flood, because of a breaking flume; but by a simple and wise device +Felion stayed the danger. + +And again the people blessed him; and the years went on. + +By-and-by an awful peril came, for two-score children had set a great +raft loose upon the river, and they drifted down towards the rapids in +the sight of the people; and mothers and helpless fathers wrung their +hands, for on the swift tide no boat could reach them, and none could +intercept the raft. But Felion, seeing, ran out upon the girders of a +bridge that was being builded, and there, before them all, as the raft +passed under, he let himself fall, breaking his leg as he dropped among +the timbers of the fore-part of the raft; for the children were all +gathered at the back, where the great oars lay motionless, one dragging +in the water behind. Felion drew himself over to the huge oar, and with +the strength of five men, while the people watched and prayed, he kept +the raft straight for the great slide, else it had gone over the dam and +been lost, and all that were thereon. A mile below, the raft was brought +to shore, and again the people said that Felion had saved the little city +from disaster. + +And they blessed him for the moment; and the years went on. + +Felion's daughter grew towards womanhood, and her beauty was great, and +she was welcome everywhere in the valley, the people speaking well of her +for her own sake. But at last a time came when of the men of the valley +one called, and Felion's daughter came quickly to him, and with tears for +her father and smiles for her husband, she left the valley and journeyed +into the east, having sworn to love and cherish him while she lived. And +her father, left solitary, mourned for her, and drew away into a hill +above the valley in a cedar house that he built; and having little else +to love, loved the earth, and sky, and animals, and the children from the +little city when they came his way. But his heart was sore; for by-and- +by no letters came from his daughter, and the little city, having +prospered, concerned it self no more with him. When he came into its +streets there were those who laughed, for he was very tall and rude, and +his grey hair hung loose on his shoulders, and his dress was still a +hunter's. They had not long remembered the time when a grievous disease, +like a plague, fell upon the place, and people died by scores, as sheep +fall in a murrain. And again they had turned to him, and he, because he +knew of a miraculous medicine got from Indian sachems, whose people had +suffered of this sickness, came into the little city, and by his +medicines and fearless love and kindness stayed the plague. + +And thus once more he saved the little city from disaster, and they +blessed him for the moment; and the years went on. + +In time they ceased to think of Felion at all, and he was left alone; +even the children came no more to visit him; and he had pleasure only in +hunting and shooting and in felling trees, with which he built a high +stockade and a fine cedar house within it. And all the work of this he +did with his own hands, even to the polishing of the floors and the +carved work of the large fireplaces. Yet he never lived in the house, +nor in any room of it, and the stockade gate was always shut; and when +any people passed that way they stared and shrugged their shoulders, and +thought Felion mad or a fool. But he was wise in his own way, which was +not the way of those who had reason to bless him for ever, and who forgot +him, though he had served them through so many years. Against the little +city he had an exceeding bitterness; and this grew, and had it not been +that his heart was kept young by the love of the earth, and the beasts +about him in the hills, he must needs have cursed the place and died. +But the sight of a bird in the nest with her young, and the smell of a +lair, and the light of the dawn that came out of the east, and the winds +that came up from the sea, and the hope that would not die kept him from +being of those who love not life for life's sake, be it in ease or in +sorrow. He was of those who find all worth the doing, even all worth the +suffering; and so, though he frowned and his lips drew tight with anger +when he looked down at the little city, he felt that elsewhere in the +world there was that which made it worth the saving. + +If his daughter had been with him he would have laughed at that which his +own hands had founded, protected, and saved. But no word came from her, +and laughter was never on his lips--only an occasional smile when, +perhaps, he saw two sparrows fighting, or watched the fish chase each +other in the river, or a toad, too lazy to jump, walk stupidly like a +convict, dragging his long, green legs behind him. And when Felion +looked up towards Shaknon and Margath, a light came in his eyes, for they +were wise and quiet, and watched the world, and something of their +grandeur drew about him like a cloak. As age cut deep lines in his face +and gave angles to his figure, a strange, settled dignity grew upon him, +whether he swung his axe by the balsams or dressed the skins of the +animals he had killed, piling up the pelts in a long shed in the +stockade, a goodly heritage for his daughter, if she ever came back. +Every day at sunrise he walked to the door of his house and looked +eastward steadily, and sometimes there broke from his lips the words: +"My daughter-Carille!" Again, he would sit and brood with his chin in +his hand, and smile, as though remembering pleasant things. + +One day at last, in the full tide of summer, a man, haggard and troubled, +came to Felion's house, and knocked, and, getting no reply, waited; and +whenever he looked down at the little city he wrung his hands, and more +than once he put them up to his face and shuddered, and again looked for +Felion. Just when the dusk was rolling down, Felion came back, and, +seeing the man, would have passed him without a word, but that the man +stopped with an eager, sorrowful gesture and said: "The plague has come +upon us again, and the people, remembering how you healed them long ago, +beg you to come." + +At that Felion leaned his fishing-rod against the door and answered: + +"What people?" + +The other then replied: "The people of the little city below, Felion." + +"I do not know your name," was the reply; "I know naught of you or of +your city." + +"Are you mad?" cried the man. "Do you forget the little city down +there? Have you no heart?" + +A strange smile passed over Felion's face, and he answered: "When one +forgets, why should the other remember?" + +He turned and went into the house and shut the door, and though the man +knocked, the door was no opened, and he went back angry and miserable; +and the people could not believe that Felion would no come to help them, +as he had done all his life. A dawn three others came, and they found +Felion looking out towards the east, his lips moving as though he prayed. +Yet it was no prayer, only a call, that was on his lips. They felt a +sort of awe in his presence, for now he seemed as if he had lived more +than a century, so wise and old was the look of his face, so white his +hair, so set and distant his dignity. They begged him to come, and, +bringing his medicines, save the people, for death was galloping through +the town, knocking at many doors. + +"One came to heal you," he answered--"the young man of the schools, who +wrote mystic letters after his name; it swings on a brass by his door- +where is he?" + +"He is dead of the plague," they replied, "and the other also that came +with him, who fled before the sickness, fell dead of it on the roadside, +going to the sea." + +"Why should I go?" he replied, and he turned threateningly to his +weapon, as if in menace of their presence. + +"You have no one to leave behind," they answered eagerly, "and you are +old." + +"Liars," he rejoined, "let the little city save itself!" and he wheeled +and went into his house, and they saw that they had erred in not +remembering his daughter, whose presence they had once prized. They saw +that they had angered him beyond soothing; and they went back in grief, +for two of them had lost dear relatives by the fell sickness. When they +told what had happened, the people said: "We will send the women; he will +listen to them--he had a daughter." + +That afternoon, when all the hills lay still and dead, and nowhere did +bird or breeze stir, the women came, and they found him seated with his +back turned to the town. He was looking into the deep woods, into the +hot shadows of the trees. + +"We have come to bring you to the little city," they said to him; "the +sick grow in numbers every hour." + +"It is safe in the hills," he answered, not looking at them. "Why do the +people stay in the valley?" + +"Every man has a friend, or a wife, or a child, ill or dying, and every +woman has a husband, or a child, or a friend, or a brother. Cowards have +fled, and many of them have fallen by the way." + +"Last summer I lay sick here many weeks and none came near me--why should +I go to the little city?" he demanded austerely. "Four times I saved +it, and of all that I saved none came to give me water to drink, or food +to eat, and I lay burning with fever, and thirsty and hungry--God of +heaven, how thirsty!" + +"We did not know," they answered humbly; "you came to us so seldom, we +had forgotten; we were fools." + +"I came and went fifty years," he answered bitterly, "and I have +forgotten how to rid the little city of the plague!" + +At that one of the women, mad with anger, made as if to catch him by his +beard, but she forbore, and said: "Liar--the men shall hang you to your +own rooftree!" + +His eyes had a wild light, but he waved his hand quietly, and answered: +"Begone, and learn how great a sin is ingratitude." + +He turned away from them gloomily, and would have entered his home, but +one of the women, who was young, plucked his sleeve, and said +sorrowfully: "I loved Carille, your daughter." + +"And forgot her and her father. I am three-score and ten years, and she +has been gone fifteen, and for the first time I see your face," was his +scornful reply. + +She was tempted to say: "I was ever bearing children and nursing them, +and the hills were hard to climb, and my husband would not go;" but she +saw how dark his look was, and she hid her face in her hands and turned +away to follow after the others. She had five little children, and her +heart was anxious for them and her eyes full of tears. + +Anger and remorse seized on the little city, and there were those who +would have killed Felion, but others saw that the old man had been sorely +wronged in the past, and these said: "Wait until the morrow and we will +devise something." + +That night a mule-train crept slowly down the mountain side and entered +the little city, for no one who came with them knew of the plague. The +caravan had come from the east across the great plains, and not from the +west, which was the travelled highway to the sea. Among them was a woman +who already was ill of a fever, and knew naught of what passed round her. +She had with her a beautiful child; and one of the women of the place +devised a thing. "This woman," she said, "does not belong to the little +city, and he can have nothing against her; she is a stranger. Let one of +us take this beautiful lad to him, and he shall ask Felion to come and +save his mother." + +Every one approved the woman's wisdom, and in the early morning she +herself, with another, took the child and went up the long hillside in +the heavy heat; and when they came near Felion's house the women stayed +behind, and the child went forward, having been taught what to say to the +old man. + +Felion sat just within his doorway, looking out into the sunlight which +fell upon the red and white walls of the little city, flanked by young +orchards, with great, oozy meadows beyond these, where cattle ate, knee- +deep in the lush grass and cool reed-beds. Along the riverside, far up +on the high banks, were the tall couches of dead Indians, set on poles, +their useless weapons laid along the deerskin pall. Down the hurrying +river there passed a raft, bearing a black flag on a pole, and on it were +women and children who were being taken down to the sea from the doomed +city. These were they who had lost fathers and brothers; and now were +going out alone with the shadow of the plague over them, for there was +none to say them nay. The tall oarsmen bent to their task, and Felion +felt his blood beat faster when he saw the huge oars swing high, then +drop and bend in the water, as the raft swung straight in its course and +passed on safe through the narrow slide into the white rapids below, +which licked the long timbers as with white tongues, and tossed spray +upon the sad voyagers. Felion remembered the day when he left his own +child behind and sprang from the bridge to the raft whereon were the +children of the little city, and saved them. + +And when he tried to be angry now, the thought of the children as they +watched him, with his broken leg striving against their peril, softened +his heart. He shook his head, for suddenly there came to him the memory +of a time, three-score years before, when he and the foundryman's +daughter had gone hunting flag-flowers by the little trout stream; of the +songs they sang together at the festivals, she in her sweet Quaker garb +and demure Quaker beauty, he lithe, alert, and full of the joy of life +and loving. As he sat so, thinking, he wondered where she was, and why +he should be thinking of her now, facing the dreary sorrow of this +pestilence and his own anger and vengeance. He nodded softly to the +waving trees far down in the valley, for his thoughts had drifted on to +his wife as he first saw her. She was standing bare-armed among the +grape-vines by a wall of rock, the dew of rich life on her lip and +forehead, her grey eyes swimming with a soft light; and looking at her he +had loved her at once, as he had loved, on the instant, the little child +that came to him later; as he had loved the girl into which the child +grew, till she left him and came back no more. Why had he never gone in +search of her? + +He got to his feet involuntarily and stepped towards the door, looking +down into the valley. As his eyes rested on the little city his face +grew dark, but his eyes were troubled and presently grew bewildered, for +out of a green covert near there stepped a pretty boy, who came to him +with frank, unabashed face and a half-shy smile. + +Felion did not speak at first, but stood looking, and presently the child +said: "I have come to fetch you." + +"To fetch me where, little man?" asked Felion, a light coming into his +face, his heart beating faster. + +"To my mother. She is sick." + +"Where is your mother?" + +"She's in the village down there," answered the boy, pointing. + +In spite of himself, Felion smiled in a sour sort of way, for the boy had +called the place a village, and he relished the unconscious irony. + +"What is the matter with her?" asked Felion, beckoning the lad inside. + +The lad came and stood in the doorway, gazing round curiously, while the +old man sat down and looked at him, moved, he knew not why. + +The bright steel of Felion's axe, standing in the corner, caught the +lad's eye and held it. Felion saw, and said: "What are you thinking of?" + +The lad answered: "Of the axe. When I'm bigger I will cut down trees and +build a house, a bridge, and a city. Aren't you coming quick to help my +mother? She will die if you don't come." + +Felion did not answer, and from the trees without two women watched him +anxiously. + +"Why should I come?" asked Felion curiously. "Because she's sick, and +she's my mother." + +"Why should I do it because she's your mother?" + +"I don't know," the lad answered, and his brow knitted in the attempt to +think it out, "but I like you." He came and stood beside the old man and +looked into his face with a pleasant confidence. "If your mother was +sick, and I could heal her, I would--I know I would--I wouldn't be afraid +to go down into the village." + +Here were rebuke, love, and impeachment, all in one, and the old man half +started from his seat. + +"Did you think I was afraid?" he asked of the boy, as simply as might a +child of a child, so near are children and wise men in their thoughts. + +"I knew if you didn't it'd be because you were angry or were afraid, and +you didn't look angry." + +"How does one look when one is angry?" + +"Like my father." + +"And how does your father look?" + +"My father's dead." + +"Did he die of the plague?" asked Felion, laying his hand on the lad's +shoulder. + +"No," said the lad quickly, and shut his lips tight. + +"Won't you tell me?" asked Felion, with a strange inquisitiveness. + +"No. Mother'll tell you, but I won't." The lad's eyes filled with +tears. + +"Poor boy--poor boy!" said Felion, and his hand tightened on the small +shoulder. + +"Don't be sorry for me; be sorry for mother, please," said the boy, and +he laid a hand on the old man's knee, and that touch went to a heart long +closed against the little city below; and Felion rose and said: "I will +go with you to your mother." + +Then he went into another room, and the boy came near the axe and ran his +fingers along the bright steel, and fondled the handle, as does a hunter +the tried weapon which has been his through many seasons. When the old +man came back he said to the boy: "Why do you look at the axe?" + +"I don't know," was the answer; "maybe because my mother used to sing a +song about the wood-cutters." Without a word, and thinking much, he +stepped out into the path leading to the little city, the lad holding one +hand. Years afterwards men spoke with a sort of awe or reverence of +seeing the beautiful stranger lad leading old Felion into the plague- +stricken place, and how, as they passed, women threw themselves at +Felion's feet, begging him to save their loved ones. And a drunkard cast +his arm round the old man's shoulder and sputtered foolish pleadings in +his ear; but Felion only waved them back gently, and said: "By-and-by, +by-and-by--God help us all!" + +Now a fevered hand snatched at him from a doorway, moanings came from +everywhere, and more than once he almost stumbled over a dead body; +others he saw being carried away to the graveyard for hasty burial. Few +were the mourners that followed, and the faces of those who watched the +processions go by were set and drawn. The sunlight and the green trees +seemed an insult to the dead. + +They passed into the house where the sick woman lay, and some met him at +the door with faces of joy and meaning; for now they knew the woman and +would have spoken to him of her; but he waved them off, and put his +fingers upon his lips and went where a fire burned in a kitchen, and +brewed his medicines. And the child entered the room where his mother +lay, and presently he came to the kitchen and said: "She is asleep--my +mother." + +The old man looked down on him a moment steadily, and a look of +bewilderment came into his face. But he turned away again to the +simmering pots. The boy went to the window and, leaning upon the sill, +began to hum softly a sort of chant, while he watched a lizard +running hither and thither in the sun. As he hummed, the old man +listened, and presently, with his medicines in his hands and a half- +startled look, he came over to the lad. + +"What are you humming?" he asked. + +The lad answered: "A song of the wood-cutters." + +"Sing it again," said Felion. + +The lad began to sing: + + "Here shall I build me my cedar house, + A city with gates, a road to the sea-- + For I am the lord of the Earth! Hew! Hew!" + +The old man stopped him. "What is your name?" "My name is Felion," +answered the lad; and he put his face close to the jug that held the +steaming tinctures: but the old man caught the little chin in his huge +hand and bent back the head, looking long into the lad's eyes. At last +he caught little Felion's hand and hurried into the other room, where the +woman lay in a stupor. The old man came quickly to her and looked into +her face. Seeing, he gave a broken cry and said: + +"Carille, my daughter! Carille!" + +He drew her to his breast, and as he did so he groaned aloud, for he knew +that inevitable Death was waiting for her at the door. He straightened +himself up, clasped the child to his breast, and said: "I, too, am +Felion, my little son." + +And then he set about to defeat that dark, hovering Figure at the door. + +For three long hours he sat beside her, giving her little by little his +potent medicines; and now and again he stopped his mouth with his hand, +lest he should cry out; and his eyes never wavered from her face, not +even to the boy, who lay asleep in the corner. + +At last his look relaxed its vigilance, for a dewy look passed over the +woman's face, and she opened her eyes and saw him, and gave a little cry +of "Father!" and was straightway lost in his arms. + +"I have come home to die," she said. + +"No, no, to live!" he answered firmly. "Why did you not send me word +all these long years?" + +"My husband was in shame, in prison, and I in sorrow," she answered +sadly. "I could not." + +"He did evil? He is--" he paused. + +"He is dead," she said. "It is better so." Her eyes wandered round the +room restlessly, and then fixed upon the sleeping child, and a smile +passed over her face. She pointed to the lad. + +The old man nodded. "He brought me here," he said gently. Then he got +to his feet. "You must sleep now," he added, and he gave her a cordial. +"I must go forth and save the sick." + +"Is it a plague?" she asked. + +He nodded. "They said you would not come to save them," she continued +reproachfully. "You came to me because I was your Carille, only for +that?" + +"No, no," he answered; "I knew not who you were. I came to save a mother +to her child." + +"Thank God!" she said. + +With a happy smile she hid her face in the pillow. At last, leaving her +and the child asleep, old Felion went forth into the little city, and the +people flocked to him, and for many days he came and went ceaselessly. + +And once more he saved the city, and the people blessed him: and the +years go on. + + + + + + +THE FORGE IN THE VALLEY + +He lay where he could see her working at the forge. As she worked she +sang: + + "When God was making the world, + (Swift is the wind and white is the fire) + The feet of his people danced the stars; + There was laughter and swinging bells, + + And clanging iron and breaking breath, + The hammers of heaven making the hills, + The vales on the anvil of God. + (Wild is the fire and low is the wind.)" + +His eyes were shining, and his face had a pale radiance from the +reflected light, though he lay in the shadow where he could watch her, +while she could not see him. Now her hand was upon the bellows, and the +low, white fire seethed hungrily up, and set its teeth upon the iron she +held; now it turned the iron about upon the anvil, and the sparks +showered about her very softly and strangely. There was a cheerful +gravity in her motions, a high, fine look in her face. + +They two lived alone in the solitudes of Megalon Valley. + +It was night now, and the pleasant gloom of the valley was not broken by +any sound save the hum of the stream near by, and the song, and the +ringing anvil. But into the workshop came the moist, fragrant smell of +the acacia and the maple, and a long brown lizard stretched its neck +sleepily across the threshold of the door opening into the valley. + +The song went on: + + "When God had finished the world + (Bright was the fire and sweet was the wind) + Up from the valleys came song, + To answer the morning stars, + And the hand of man on the anvil rang; + His breath was big in his breast, his life + Beat strong on the walls of the world. + (Glad is the wind and tall is the fire.)" + +He put his hands to his eyes, and took them away again, as though to make +sure that the song was not a dream. Wonder grew upon his thin, bearded +face, he ran his fingers through his thick hair in a dazed way. Then he +lay and looked, and a rich warm flush crept over his cheek, and stayed +there. + +There was a great gap in his memory. + +The evening wore on. Once or twice the woman turned towards the room +where the man lay, and listened--she could not see his face from where +she stood. At such times he lay still, though his heart beat quickly, +like that of an expectant child. His lips opened to speak, but still +they remained silent. As yet he was like a returned traveller who does +not quickly recognise old familiar things, and who is struggling with +vague suggestions and forgotten events. As time went on, the woman +turned towards the doorway oftener, and shifted her position so that she +faced it, and the sparks, flying up, lighted her face with a wonderful +irregular brightness. + +"Samantha," he said at last, and his voice sounded so strange to him that +the word quivered timidly towards her. + +She paused upon a stroke, and some new note in his voice sent so sudden a +thrill to her heart that she caught her breath with a painful kind of +joy. The hammer dropped upon the anvil, and, in a moment, she stood in +the doorway of his room. + +"Francis, Francis," she responded in a low whisper. He started up from +his couch of skins. "Samantha, my wife!" he cried, in a strong proud +voice. + +She dropped beside him and caught his head, like a mother, to her +shoulder, and set her warm lips on his forehead and hair with a kind of +hunger; and then he drew her face down and kissed her on the lips. Tears +hung at her eyes, and presently dropped on her cheeks, a sob shook her, +and then she was still, her hands grasping his shoulders. + +"Have I been ill?" he asked. + +"You have been very ill, Francis." + +"Has it been long?" + +Her fingers passed tenderly through his grizzled hair. "Too long, too +long, my husband," she replied. + +"Is it summer now?" + +"Yes, Francis, it is summer." + +"Was it in the spring, Samantha?--Yes, I think it was in the spring," he +added, musing. + +"It was in a spring." + +"There was snow still on the mountain-top, the river was running high, +and wild fowl were gathered on the island in the lake--yes, I remember, +I think." + +"And the men were working at the mine," she whispered, her voice shaking +a little, and her eyes eagerly questioning his face. + +"Ah, the mine--it was the mine, Samantha!" he said abruptly, his eyes +flashing up. "I was working at the forge to make a great bolt for the +machinery, and some one forgot and set the engine in motion. I ran out; +but it was too late . . . and then . . ." + +"And then you tried to save them, Francis, and you were hurt." + +"What month is this, my wife?" + +"It is December." + +"And that was in October?" + +"Yes, in October." + +"I have been ill since? What happened?" + +"Many were killed, Francis, and you and I came away." + +"Where are we now? I do not know the place." + +"This is Megalon Valley. You and I live alone here." + +"Why did you bring me here?" + +"I did not bring you, Francis; you wished me to come. One day you said +to me: 'There is a place in Megalon Valley where, long ago, an old man +lived, who had become a stranger among men--a place where the blackbird +stays, and the wolf-dog troops and hides, and the damson grows as thick +as blossoms on the acacia. We will go there.' And I came with you." + +"I do not remember. What of the mine? Was I a coward and left the mine? +There was no one understood the ways of the wheel, and rod, and steam, +save me. + +"The mine is closed, Francis," she answered gently. "You were no coward, +but--but you had strange fancies. + +"When did the mine close?" he said, with a kind of sorrow; "I put hard +work and good years into it." At that moment, when her face drew close +to his, the vision of her as she stood at the anvil came to him with a +new impression, and he said again in a half-frightened way: "When did it +close, Samantha?" + +"The mine was closed--twelve years ago, my own dear husband." + +He got to his feet and clasped her to his breast. A strength came to him +which had eluded him twelve years, and she, womanlike, delighted in that +strength, and, with a great gladness, changed eyes and hands with him; +keeping her soul still her own, brooding and lofty, as is the soul of +every true woman, though, like this one, she labours at a forge, and in a +far, untenanted country is faithful friend, ceaseless apothecary to a +comrade with a disordered mind; living on savage meats, clothing herself +and the other in skins, and, with a divine persistence, keeping a +cheerful heart, certain that the intelligence which was frightened from +its home would come back one day. It should be hers to watch for the +great moment, and give the wanderer loving welcome, lest it should hurry +madly away again into the desert, never to return. + +She had her reward, yet she wept. She had carried herself before him +with the bright ways of an unvexed girl these twelve years past; she had +earned the salt of her tears. He was dazed still, but, the doublet of +his mind no longer unbraced, he understood what she had been to him, and +how she had tended him in absolute loneliness, her companions the wild +things of the valley--these and God. + +He drew her into the workshop, and put his hand upon the bellows and +churned them, so that the fire roared joyously up, and the place was red +with the light. In this light he turned her to him and looked at her. +The look was as that of one who had come back from the dead--that naked, +profound, unconditional gaze which is as deep and honest as the primeval +sense. His eyes fell upon her rich, firm, stately body; it lingered for +a moment on the brown fulness of her hair; then her look was gathered to +his, and they fell into each other's arms. + +For long they sat in the solemn silence of their joy, and so awed were +they by the thing which had come to them that they felt no surprise when +a wolf-dog crawled over the lizard on the threshold, and stole along the +wall with shining, bloody eyes to an inner room, and stayed there +munching meat to surfeit and drowsiness, and at last crept out and lay +beside the forge in a thick sleep. These two had lived so much with the +untamed things of nature, the bellows and the fire had been so long +there, and the clang of the anvil was so familiar, that there was a +kinship among them, man and beast, with the woman as ruler. + +"Tell me, Samantha," he said at last, "what has happened during these +twelve years, all from the first. Keep nothing back. I am strong now." +He looked around the workshop, then, suddenly, at her, with a strange +pain, and they both turned their heads away for an instant, for the same +thought was on them. Then, presently, she spoke, and answered his shy, +sorrowful thought before all else. "The child is gone," she softly said. + +He sat still, but a sob was in his throat. He looked at her with a kind +of fear. He wondered if his madness had cost the life of the child. She +understood. "Did I ever see the child?" he asked. + +"Oh yes, I sometimes thought that through the babe you would be yourself +again. When you were near her you never ceased to look at her and fondle +her, as I thought very timidly; and you would start sometimes and gaze at +me with the old wise look hovering at your eyes. But the look did not +stay. The child was fond of you, but she faded and pined, and one day as +you nursed her you came to me and said: 'See, beloved, the little one +will not wake. She pulled at my beard and said, "Daddy," and fell +asleep.' And I took her from your arms. . . . There is a chestnut +tree near the door of our cottage at the mine. One night you and I +buried her there; but you do not remember her, do you?" + +"My child, my child!" he said, looking out into the night; and he lifted +up his arms and looked at them. "I held her here, and still I never held +her; I fondled her, and yet I never fondled her; I buried her, yet-- +to me--she never was born." + +"You have been far away, Francis; you have come back home. I waited, and +prayed, and worked with you, and was patient. . . . It is very +strange," she continued. "In all these twelve years you cannot remember +our past, though you remembered about this place--the one thing, as if +God had made it so--and now you cannot remember those twelve years." + +"Tell me now of the twelve years," he urged. + +"It was the same from day to day. When we came from the mountain, we +brought with us the implements of the forge upon a horse. Now and again +as we travelled we cut our way through the heavy woods. You were changed +for the better then; a dreadful trouble seemed to have gone from your +face. There was a strong kind of peace in the valley, and there were so +many birds and animals, and the smell of the trees was so fine, that we +were not lonely, neither you nor I." + +She paused, thinking, her eyes looking out to where the Evening Star was +sailing slowly out of the wooded horizon, his look on her. In the pause +the wolf-dog raised its big, sleepy eyes at them, then plunged its head +into its paws, its wildness undisturbed by their presence. + +Presently the wife continued: "At last we reached here, and here we have +lived, where no human being, save one, has ever been. We put up the +forge, and in a little hill not far away we found coal for it. The days +went on. It was always summer, though there came at times a sharp frost, +and covered the ground with a coverlet of white. But the birds were +always with us, and the beasts were our friends. I learned to love even +the shrill cry of the reed hens, and the soft tap-tap of the wood-pecker +is the sweetest music to my ear after the song of the anvil. How often +have you and I stood here at the anvil, the fire heating the iron, and +our hammers falling constantly! Oh, Francis, I knew that only here with +God and His dumb creatures, and His wonderful healing world, all sun, and +wind, and flowers, and blossoming trees, working as you used to work, as +the first of men worked, would the sane wandering soul return to you. +The thought was in you, too, for you led me here, and have been patient +also in the awful exile of your mind." + +"I have been as a child, and not as a man," he said gravely. "Shall I +ever again be a man, as I once was, Samantha?" + +"You cannot see yourself," she said. "A week ago you fell ill, and since +then you have been pale and worn; but your body has been, and is, that of +a great strong man. In the morning I will take you to a spring in the +hills, and you shall see yourself, beloved." + +He stood up, stretched himself, went to the door, and looked out into the +valley flooded with moonlight. He drew in a great draught of air, and +said: "The world--the great, wonderful world, where men live, and love +work, and do strong things!"--he paused, and turned with a trouble in his +face. "My wife," he said, "you have lived with a dead man twelve years, +and I have lost twelve years in the world. I had a great thought once-- +an invention--but now--" he hung his head bitterly. She came to him, and +her hands slid up along his breast to his shoulders, and rested there; +and she said, with a glad smile: "Francis, you have lost nothing. The +thing--the invention--was all but finished when you fell ill a week ago. +We have worked at it for these twelve years; through it, I think, you +have been brought back to me. Come, there is a little work yet to, do +upon it;" and she drew him to where a machine of iron lay in the corner. +With a great cry he fell upon his knees beside it, and fondled it. + +Then, presently, he rose, and caught his wife to his breast. + +Together, a moment later, they stood beside the anvil. The wolf-dog fled +out into the night from the shower of sparks, as, in the red light, the +two sang to the clanging of the hammers: + + "When God was making the world + (Swift is the wind and white is the fire)" + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Counsel of the overwise to go jolting through the soul +Love knows not distance; it hath no continent +When a child is born the mother also is born again + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARABLES OF A PROVINCE, PARKER *** + +********* This file should be named gp69w10.txt or gp69w10.zip ********** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, gp69w11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gp69w10a.txt + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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